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Jethro Tull - Heavy Horses

  1. #1
    FdT svezzato Luca Canetti
    Uomo 36 anni
    Iscrizione: 6/5/2012
    Messaggi: 249
    Piaciuto: 14 volte

    Predefinito Jethro Tull - Heavy Horses

    Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust;
    An october's day, towards evening.
    Sweat-embossed veins standing proud to the plough;
    Salt on a deep chest seasoning.
    Last of the line at an honest day's toil;
    Turning the deep sod under.
    Flint at the fetlok, chasing the bone;
    Flies, at the nostrils plunder.

    The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
    With the Shire on his feathers floating.
    Hauling soft timbers into the dusk
    To bed on a worm straw coating.

    Heavy Horses, move the land under me.
    Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free.
    Now you're down to the few and there's no work to do;
    The tractor's on his way.

    Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed,
    To keep the old line going.
    And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
    Behind the young trees growing.
    To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
    Your eighteen hands at the shoulder.
    And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
    And the nights are seen to grow colder
    They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
    Your noble grace and your bearing.
    And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
    In the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

    Heavy Horses, move the land under me.
    Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free.
    Now you're down to the few and there's no work to do;
    The tractor's on his way.

    Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill,
    Up into the cold wind facing
    In still battle harness chained to the world
    Against the low sun racing.
    Bring me a wheel of oaken wood,
    A rein of polished leather.
    A heavy horse and a tumbling sky,
    Brewing heavy weather.

    Bring a song for the evening,
    Clean brass to flash the dawn
    Across these acres glistening
    Like dew on a carpet lawn.
    In these dark townsfolk lie sleeping
    As the heavy horses thunder by
    To wake the dying city
    With the living horseman's cry.



    At once the old hands quicken,
    Bring pick and wisp and carry comb
    Thrill to the sound of all
    The heavy horses coming home.

    Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust;
    An october's day, towards evening.
    Sweat-embossed veins standing proud to the plough;
    Salt on a deep chest seasoning.
    Bring me a wheel of oaken wood,
    A rein of polished leather.
    A heavy horse and a tumbling sky,
    Brewing heavy weather.

    Heavy Horses, move the land under me.
    Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free.
    Now you're down to the few and there's no work to do;
    The tractor's on his way.


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