On our drive to Manchester,
We paused to pick mushrooms
Not the tasty kind, but
the kind which fucks with you

We met this happy farmer there
He explained he didn't care,
Was accepting of my lens,
And pointed us further up the hill
Where, success we found
Amongst the brown
Cowpats of his friends

(a hasty haphazard attept as I think it's 'Poetry Day', but it's all true)