There’s a song by Robert Wyatt. He talks it, like a story. He’s in the countryside being driven through Wiltshire.
It’s a lovely day, sun shining, trees green, and he spies a low concrete outbuilding, flat roof, no more than two feet tall. He asks what it is. The local person accompanying him says it’s where they keep pigs.
‘I thought, oh, yes, I see, that’s where they keep pigs, and the sun was shining down and the grass was