Mortars on the hill.




They believed it,
that the king touches beggars.

We knew it was poverty.

Put an extra charge,
in the morning range,
now box hedges and sage.

Most surrendered,
stockings and suspenders,
as Brummagem pounded the steel,
re-inventing the wheel.

Democracy.

Talking to a man who fried ham,
on a beach in Normandy,
his Mrs,
like a beautiful winter rose.

And the young ones, desiring to let go their imagination,
barked at by the teacher dog,
a quick snog
battlements to roll a joint on.

We no longer eat crows
and a ginger New Zealand maiden,
gives me a blackberry.

But don't mention the war,
a very uncivil, cor blimey and touch me 'at,
keep out the unwashed
and murder the cat.

To neat to perfect,
but don't mention the poor,
as the door is closed to generations.


Lord Trentchard,
your beautiful great grandchildren are beggars,
all she wanted to see,
was a squirrel.

Autumn is as autumn was,
heritage Britain,
a fiver a go
and war come.

Sedition is back on the menu
and squirrels hide their nuts,
as the protectors charges,
are laid below sixteen foot thick stone walls.

That will never be replaced.

~