Ever seen the classic "Apaches' a farm safety film made by the COI in 1977
If not, here's a brief rundown in rhyme. 29 verses - one for every minute of the film.

A to the moutherfuckin’ pache, one-by-one we all get despache

Entire nation facing starvation, broken promises all outta patience
Wagon train, board and attack, assault going well chase down the track
Celebration, Premature, gun-toting Kim then slips in manure
Short squeak and a bumping trailer, Claret spilt, nothing to save her

Open mouthed, warriors stand, looking at the gun no longer in hand
Cracked barrel, blood pool, farmyard driver looks like a fool
His fault? No accidental, no point getting sentimental
First Apache soul goes transcendental, Kim identified only from dental.

Back at home a family preparing, polished shoes, which blouse you wearing?
Dad’s face, seen in his heels, worn for the girl who went under the wheels
On the table, veal and ham, motherfuckin’ sliced like a leg of lamb
Kick the bucket or kick the can? Calcutta’s gone now it’s time for pan.

Now a game, but not football, Sharon puts her foot down just to make sure
Kick the can and scatter like mice, run away, hide out of sight
First caught, Sharon in straw, stands in circle as a rule of law
No shouting! Others are running, don’t worry Sharon, Help is Coming!

“It’s not allowed” Geronimo cries, So Sharon whispers to others nearby
All of a sudden, the can gets kicked, Sharon released, Geronimo tricked
Nearby at the back of a barn, young Tom chances his arm
No one’s seen him, at least not yet, but pretty soon he’ll be up to his neck.

Geronimo scouts now, hunting for Tom, wheeling round in the midday sun
Tom senses Geronimo coming, across the farmyard now starts running
Down the Alleyway, past the trough, duck behind as the farmer dumps slop
Slurry sludge, drops like porridge, bulldozed in without Tom’s knowledge.

Geronimo, still giving chase, can’t see Tom in his hiding place
There’s a shout back at base, Geronimo scarpers, Tom is safe!
Now he moves onto the fence in a hurry, above the bubbling liquid slurry
Shout, yelp, slip, a momentary blunder, shit gurglin’ as the boy goes under

Slap the crust in a desperate bid, two arms flailing like a harpooned squid
It’s the last we see of our little Tommy, another young life poured down the swanney
Back at school his desk get’s cleared, a day off for all in his year
Down on the farm Geronimo stares, does he know? Does he care?

Back at the farmhouse and there’s a party, new linen and 70’s pottery
Knives and forks laid out with care, food for the one whose life will be spared
Back on the farm and it’s playtime, no word about tom who drowned in the slime
Bows and arrows and bands in hair, Apache nation, total warfare

Down at the train tracks, Geronimo stands, his sergeant at arms gun in hand
Gallop back to the rest of the crew –“open the gates, we’re coming through!”
Then a gunfight with a farmer, but the kids don’t come to harm yet
Mock deaths in a killing spree, Sharon survives “they’re missin’ me!”

Sharon takes an invisible bullet, around the barn, a play-dead quartet
Then in a manner contradictory, they hoot and holler, celebrating victory
Swingin on ropes and stabbing straw, dancing on the farmyard killing floor
“Oh it was nothing” says Sharon wryly, to Geronimo who stands there smiling

Into Grandad’s dingy shed, what goes on here? Best unsaid
Rusty meat hooks with intent, hold another sad lament
Firewater, made by the whiteman, is passed round in a rusty tin can
It’s best to mime it, they all say, just like they did in the school play

One by one, put can to lip, but no-one dares to take a sip
Then Sharon, forgetting school, takes a slug like a drunken fool
Spits it out, gurgles low, “you alright Sharon?”, “Yeah I think so”
Pretty soon it’s clear she’s not, taken kindly to Paraquat

Through the farmyard’s fading light, our heroes wander home for the night
Sharon peels off heading for bed, lengthy shadows, portent of dread
Geronimo knows as he looks at the door, there’s gonna be another loss in his corps
See the farmhouse in the gloom, and hear a squeal from Sharon’s room

A light comes on and there’s another yelp, Sharon’s calling “Mummy help!”
The screaming echoes in the farmyard dark, as the weedkiller leaves its mark
Another apache down in the killing spree, now the tribe numbers only three
Psh Psh Sharon we’re going to miss you, felled by Paraquat’s fibrous tissue

When she’s feeling fit and able, Sharon’s mum clears the dressing table
Jewellery box, pairs of socks, hairbrush and comb, a cat in a dome
All packed away as the mobile spins, but on the farm there’s no violins
The last three again playing with glee, Geronimo chased by Hutch and Starsky

Pop guns and a high speed chase, through the barns the survivors race
Michael crouches in front of a vehicle, is this the end? Is it meaningful?
A herring swims right past, - a red ‘un, and Michael runs on just at the last second
Past the cow, who backs away, our heroes dive into knee-deep hay

Starsky crouches and Hutchinson waits, between two giant iron gates
Geronimo dives from door way to floor, on Starsky’s hat, waving straw
The cops move in now for the kill and Hutch moves as Starsky stays still
Dislodged byHutch, the iron gate, begins to tip sealing Starsky’s fate

There’s a clang like a requiem bell and young Starsky sees the gate of hell
Is he dead? There’s no dispute, because his head is crushed like fruit
The red trickle gives another clue, that the Apaches now number two
Survivors gasp cos they didn’t prevent, another farmyard accident

In the farmhouse, daffodils, hint at Spring but there’s a chill
In the drive two late guests, looks like the Sweeney before an arrest
Upon the hill where it all began, Geronimo and Michael hatch a plan
“I’m going to scout the land” Geronimo blathers, “you stay here – guard the lodge of our fathers”

“I’ll be gone many Moons” Geronimo blurts, “yes Chief” says Michael, somewhat hurt
See the distant Turville Spire, as the final Apache stays by the fire
Geronimo now on his tod, skips through the graveyards fresh dug sod
Over the fence under leaden skies, he boasts “we shall return, we shall survive!”

“We must learn the ways of the white eyes, see” says Geronimo, rather unwisely
As he tramples through knee-deep bracken, his little warrior face, half-blackened
As he goes a little further on, he sees a jostling farmer on his Massey Ferguson
Up to the peak where the tractor’s parked, “We must have food”, Geronimo barks

Off the high bank Geronimo flies, onto the dirt road were the tractor lies
“Be careful” says the farm hand “That’s all right. This is our land”
Cocksure Geronimo’s now behind the wheel, his foot slips, the brakes whine and squeal
Before the farmers know what he’s doing, Geronimo’s off - “Help I’m moving”

Geronimo wails and tries to control it, but the tractors on a one-way roll. Shit
Bleating help! like a lamb electrified, this Indian chiefs on a non-stop death slide
Confused, he now adds a plaintive help, into the mix of the other, louder yelps
It seems resigned like he knows he had it coming, and behind him now, the helpless farmers running.

Geronimo in his jumper and head band, sees now that he’s rolling off a head land
He grips the wheel, keeps yelling, contorting his face like a pre-jump lemming
Arms now crossed, he’s in a pickle, death straightens his cloak and sharpens his sickle
This is the final, furious testimony of the worst Apache chief in history

Remember Danny Boy, when you called Michael daft, but this ain’t gonna be his fuckin’ epitaph
Jostling down the bank, like human spag bol, jerked from left to right like a mop-headed ragdoll
Over the edge, off the beaten track ‘n’ through the brambles, nettles and bracken
Geronimo’s buggered, forward he slumps after the tractor meets a few awkward tree stumps

It’s done and back at the farmhouse, grieving mum sits there in her best blouse
Cold meats are laying on the table, a fitting end to this farmyard fable
A voice over from a departed chief, compounds the sense of loss, the grief
But then one member of the clan, seems to buck the trend and fuck up the plan

It’s Grandpa, head of the bunch, who seems to have missed out on lunch
Because it’s he, the ravenous mourner, who reaches for a margarine corner
As mothers pride is passed around, gramps becomes a bread basset hound
He uses hands, don’t need no fork, to get the triangle covered in Stork

Apaches is done, they all are gone, save cousin Michael , he’s the only one
To survive the farmyard of death and watch grandpa rip into the bread
Pass the pickled onions as the credits roll up, a list of kids who really did fuck up
As the final bars die of Spanish Flea, we salute the kids who played Apache.