The Apple Press - Electric Bard

Roll another bushel down the wooden ramp Bruises on the skin from the morning damp Russet in the basket, pippin in the tub Give each little cheek a clean flannel rub Crank the massive screw, listen to it grope Tying back our sleeves with a yellow rope Sticky on the knuckles, puddle on the boot Turning all the sugar in the autumn fruit Arthur strains his back with a cheerful shout Watching for the amber stream to tumble out Turn The Iron Crank Above The Timber Bed Squeeze The Sweetest Juice For The Winter Bread Every Single Drop Into The Earthen Crock Beating Out The Rhythm On The Wooden Block Scrape off the pomace, tip the heavy tray Better cider coming at the end of day Young apprentice slips upon an apple core Doing funny dances across the floor Spills a wooden bucket right beside the ditch Laughing as he cleans off a willow switch Bailiff smells the ferment coming down the lane Puts away his quill and forgets his pain Trades a copper token for an early cup Telling every worker that the yield is up Brambles on the hedge let the berries fall Room enough for everyone beside the wall Stack the oak. Crank the screw. Watch the golden puddle brew. Wasps are buzzing by the gate. No more reasons left to wait. Turn The Iron Crank Above The Timber Bed Squeeze The Sweetest Juice For The Winter Bread Every Single Drop Into The Earthen Crock Beating Out The Rhythm On The Wooden Block Scrape off the pomace, tip the heavy tray Better cider coming at the end of day Press the sweet. Fill the cup. Drink the morning down and up.