The Corncrake time had come again and summer days were dawning.
The smell of gorse and meadow bloom did saturate the morning
And from the long grass came a sound like “scratch of comb on matchbox edge”
The Corncrake had returned again to carry out its yearly pledge.
And there I stood on route to school with shoeless feet and fear of cane
And listened while that Corncrake claimed; your late again, your late again.