there was a boy, by the name of hayes

who walked in the valley, and wasted his days,

over teh hills, by the trees,

where the weat feilds, grew up to his knees.

he had no money, no barn, no crop,

only the wood, of a farmer, he did chop.

for years on end, that axe did he swing,

untill one night, the farmer dis sing:

boy youve got talent, and a pretty good arm,

youve ran this place alone, my entire farm.

you could make a livin, on much more than i could pay,

this isnt how i know you want to spend your day.

go to the palace, and search for some wealth,

and if it doesnt work out,  ill move on myself.

so did he leave