On wind, on clouds, on dirties to the seat,
Where Arthur watches over the city,
Covered each year with thorned and oiled weed
That could catch fire, which would be a pity.
And so they cut and chopped and tore away
Some from above and others from below
Who would cut more by the end of the day? Both ends worked hard but the going was slow.
At midday they feasted, laughed, and played games
Then back they went to their labor of love
They worked hard, until their hands were in pain
At least the day had been sunny, sort-of
After the job it was time to let loose
So all who could manage dashed to the Hoose.
by Gray Davis