Cows on the horizon;
Here the land is ancient bumps and slopes,
We are surrounded by its hills.
Back home, the land is flat,
and its horizon stretches for kilometres
In every direction;
You see no cows.
This evening, Joe sat in the pub
With his habitual pint of Guinness,
And talked with ages old
About the horizon
That he sees every day
From his English tractor;
Spoke, with knowledge, of the horizon
That the Sassenach and the Yanks claim in Qatar.