There's a frost on the field
A tax on the yield, and a hand in your pocket
With the days gone dark
A loss in your heart, and a pit in your stomach
Would you turn against the grain?
You sowed the seed despite the salt
Some glutton's greed, you played your part
Your home and hearth, it falls apart
There's a frost on the field
A tax on the yield and a hand in your pocket
With the days gone dark
A loss in your heart, and a pit in your stomach
Would you turn against the grain?
You sowed the seed despite the salt
Some glutton's greed, you played your part
Your home and hearth
You play your part until we give the signal
This is our harvest, this is the fruits we bear
Siloed for a profit or dying on the vine
Isn't this our harvest?
Isn't this our feast to share?
Wiser ones are asking themselves
Who's swinging the scythe?
There's a frost on the field
A tax on the yield, and a hand in your pocket
And a pox on the land
The manor demands, but the sickle is in your hand
There's a pox on the land
The manor demands, but the sickle is in your hand
The sickle is in your hand
Well, this is our harvest, this is the fruits we bear
Siloed for a profit or dying on the vine
Isn't this our harvest?
Well, isn't this our feast to share?
Wiser ones are asking themselves
Am I swinging this scythe for someone else instead?
Well, this is our harvest, this is the fruits we bear
Siloed for a profit or dying on the vine
Well, isn't this our harvest?
Well, isn't this our feast to share?
Wiser ones are asking themselves
Who's swinging the scythe?
Who's swinging it?
