"Whos that soppy old bugger in the corner?"

"We dunno. Just wandered in off the moors one day, flashing his bits to Susan Crawfore and screaming something about oats."

The man in question suddenly put his tankard down on the oak stained table and pulled his musty, dank coat open to show a quivering stick throbbing between his legs.

"I'm the last Druid. Susan Crawfore knows all about oats. Shes been poisoning her Barley with fertilised hate."

The two men got to their feet, disgusted and angry.

"Get out of it you crusty old mental. Leave Susan out of it."

Little did the pair know she was left out of it. Cut to pieces with a whip of brambles and a nice Poison Ivy tea dripping down her lips and from her nose.

Nobody fucks the Earth but him.