Ripening, the corn,
Ripening, the corn.

Outside old house it's stored;
The silo is the hoard.
Frost is gone; the sun has shone.
It will fast be green grown;
Rising is the corn.

The distillers take a load.
They'll make some swill to burn your throat.
Headstrong heifers hate hays;
On silage they'll graze.
Then their mammaries delight
With manna creamy white.
Fill up a pail-load, yeah.

Spurning am I the oat bran,
Churning my gut, the oat bran.
Hastens waste from can,
Makes great bum-purge plan.
But I'd rather depend
On maize to make descend
What's packed up the can. [straining sound]

Ripening, the corn;
Scythe till then hay, shorn.
By the herd I've been gored,
Horns sharper than a sword
Learned my lesson; I've been shown:
Don't give 'em hay that's mown.
Rising is their scorn.

Ripening, the corn,
Rising is the corn,
Rising is their scorn,
Slicing with their horns,
Yikes! I'm mighty torn,
Writhing 'cause I'm torn,
Ply me with some corn,
Fired, condensed, reborn,
Rye, though, I won't scorn.

[fade on Moog solo]