I'm Ah, oh my days, my days, my nights, my eaves and my morns, wood to be free of this G.D. Hayman,

the hayman that calls. Do you want any hay, sir? Four bales a pound. No, I don't want any hay.

I'll shake you by the hand,

but go and sell your wares elsewhere's, is what I have to say.

It's getting silly now.

Very little use for hay in the moon underwater since we got rid of our shires and our ponies.

But they simply weren't up to modern standards.

So we use boars now.

Much more strength in a boar's flanks than in a well-stuffed pony.

And boars don't eat hay, do they, Robin?

No, I believe boars.

They eat nuts, don't they?

Some of nuts and scraps. Also, you can keep more boars to a stable than you can shires and ponies.

You're not cramming the boars in too much, though, are you? No, it's sort of, I've got a, what do you call it, a mezzanine?

Oh, a bore mezzanine. A ball mezzanine. So that's where they've got, you know, sort of, I've got a, what do you call it, a mezzanine? Oh, a bore mezzanine.

A bore mezzanine.

So that's where they've got, you know, sort of desk and laptops and stuff.

But downstairs, it's a free-for-all, really.

Yeah.

So what does the Hayman do now?

Is he lost his trade?

Is it a dying art?

...