Agriculture Lyrics
| Song | Agriculture |
| Artist | Hammers of Misfortune |
| Album | Fields / Church of Broken Glass |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Hands upon harrows | |
| Heels in the weeds | |
| Starving and harvesting | |
| Down centuries | |
| Pheasants in fields to be hunted and plucked | |
| Such is their ration of sixpenny luck | |
| Multinous Мужикѕ | |
| Who mutter in tongues | |
| They frighten the horses | |
| Of fortunate sons | |
| Absent the rustics, what have they become? | |
| Only on Sunday their tears weakly run | |
| More or less murder? | |
| One simple order | |
| It's just history's whisper | |
| A secret to leave in the field | |
| Hands upon harrows and heels in the weeds | |
| Treason and guillotines, gallows and thieves | |
| Angular hayseeds once furrowed this land | |
| Picturesque reapers with skeletal hands | |
| Proles are more portly now, mouths open wide | |
| Tipping the scales we so kindly provide | |
| Skeletal hands were our strata's delight | |
| But oh so offensive on opening night |
| Hands upon harrows | |
| Heels in the weeds | |
| Starving and harvesting | |
| Down centuries | |
| Pheasants in fields to be hunted and plucked | |
| Such is their ration of sixpenny luck | |
| Multinous | |
| Who mutter in tongues | |
| They frighten the horses | |
| Of fortunate sons | |
| Absent the rustics, what have they become? | |
| Only on Sunday their tears weakly run | |
| More or less murder? | |
| One simple order | |
| It' s just history' s whisper | |
| A secret to leave in the field | |
| Hands upon harrows and heels in the weeds | |
| Treason and guillotines, gallows and thieves | |
| Angular hayseeds once furrowed this land | |
| Picturesque reapers with skeletal hands | |
| Proles are more portly now, mouths open wide | |
| Tipping the scales we so kindly provide | |
| Skeletal hands were our strata' s delight | |
| But oh so offensive on opening night |
| Hands upon harrows | |
| Heels in the weeds | |
| Starving and harvesting | |
| Down centuries | |
| Pheasants in fields to be hunted and plucked | |
| Such is their ration of sixpenny luck | |
| Multinous | |
| Who mutter in tongues | |
| They frighten the horses | |
| Of fortunate sons | |
| Absent the rustics, what have they become? | |
| Only on Sunday their tears weakly run | |
| More or less murder? | |
| One simple order | |
| It' s just history' s whisper | |
| A secret to leave in the field | |
| Hands upon harrows and heels in the weeds | |
| Treason and guillotines, gallows and thieves | |
| Angular hayseeds once furrowed this land | |
| Picturesque reapers with skeletal hands | |
| Proles are more portly now, mouths open wide | |
| Tipping the scales we so kindly provide | |
| Skeletal hands were our strata' s delight | |
| But oh so offensive on opening night |
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