[Intro - A dark, brooding fiddle riff that suddenly explodes into a fast, stomping beat] [Verse 1] The mist was thick as clotted cream o'er the crags of Rough Tor, A shadow loomed with yellow eyes and a terrifying roar. The Beast of Bodmin’s grandad, ten feet of fang and spite, Was looking for a peasant snack to finish off the night. Along comes Kev, still steaming, on his rusted throne of steel, The Grasmere five-hundred spinning like a jagged Catherine wheel. He couldn't see a bloody inch, the visor fogged with breath, Just a council lad in hi-vis, driving straight towards his death! [beat drop - heavy, crunchy guitar strum] [Chorus - Roaring, celebratory energy] Oh, the Beast didn't reckon for the iron-growling beast! He thought he’d have a gardener for a mid-century feast! But the blades go "whirr" and the blood goes "splat", Now the monster’s nothing more than a medieval mat! (Proper job!) He’s the hero of the hamlets, the savior of the hay, Kev mowed the monster down and he didn't stop for pay! [Verse 2 - Dense, narrative flow] The cat, he crouched, he gave a hiss, he prepared a mighty spring, He’d never seen a combustion engine, he didn't know the thing! He leaped at Kev with claws outstretched, a furry bolt of hate, But he didn't spot the discharge chute until it was too late. Kev hit a rock, the mower bucked, the deck was lowered low, And the Beast of Bodmin’s ancestor met the business end of "mow". It wasn't like a tapestry, all elegant and grand, It was more like chunky salsa spread across the Cornish land! [Short, frantic fiddle solo mimicking a chase] [Verse 3 - Witty and deadpan] Kev wiped a bit of gristle off his "Employee of the Month" badge, While the villagers peeked out from every doorway and every hedge. "Blimey," said Kev, "that’s a hell of a mole you’ve got out here, I’ll need a new set of spindles and a pint of ginger beer." The local priest came running out to bless the greasy saint, While the blacksmith fainted sideways at the smell of fur and paint. "You’ve slain the Great Devourer!" the Mayor began to yell, Kev said, "I’ve just clogged the muffler, and it’s started to bloody smell." [pause] (Thatchers Gold, please mate.) [pause] [Bridge - Slow, rhythmic stomping, building tension] They didn't have a taxidermist, so they used the village salt, They hung the tail in the rafters of the local cider vault. The legend grew, the songs were sung, of the man in neon green, Who conquered ancient darkness with a loud and smelly machine. [Chorus - Maximum volume, pub-singalong style] Oh, the Beast didn't reckon for the iron-growling beast! He thought he’d have a gardener for a mid-century feast! But the blades go "whirr" and the blood goes "splat", Now the monster’s nothing more than a medieval mat! From the hills of old Cornwall to the Bodmin town hall, Kev’s the only groundskeeper who’s ever killed ‘em all! [Outro - Fading out with a jaunty banjo and a final roar] Yeah, that’ll buff right out. Just a bit of fur in the air filter. No biggie. [Sound of a pull-start cord snapping] [End]
