The sixth age of man.

 
A day trip to Whitby,
all a little Scalby,
the abbey cat and that,
another pile of stones in a field.
 
It was pushed down by a broken king,
where the singing people used to sing,
the English church soon piled it up again,
of gold and uncle Zen.
 
The courtyard of the family,
that enclosed it,
looks like something Mussolini would have liked,
the YHA walkers hiked.
 
Our stalag caravan,
as chipper as the sun,
all lined up in a big field,
what now the harvest yield.
 
The fish have gone,
the weather churns,
lost at sea,
old England burns.
 
The government is still kicking cripples,
down the apples and pears,
but who cares?
political power comes out the barrel of a gun,
revolution is such fun,
the sixth age of man,
travelling round the monster of English heritage.

 
~