Well if this world is heaven and this world is hell,
where do the small people and pixies dwell.

At the bottom of the garden of tall bladed grass,
he weeds and daises and a bubble of fibreglass.

Their little greenhouses at the bottom of heaven and hell,
this is where they dwell.

The cries in the night and the whistling through the trees.

Not wolves riding on the winds,
no the pixies.

They’ll be wearing squeaky boots and hair down to their feet,
and every step they take in search of food to eat.

That smell in the air of sweet morning dew,
a thousand pixies washing you.

Sprinkling water on those toes,
those terrible odours,
harmful to their nose.

They work all day and all night long,
washing and spluttering until all odours are gone.

Natures smells now fill the air,
the pixies now have some time to spare.

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