In the land of, ninety not out.

 
Oh, oh didn't he do well
nearly bought a Rover,
but the company went bust,
along with a certain sort of England,
ordered, with the grass well cut.
 
This garden centre,
has razor wire around its edge,
no cannabliss plants for the joints pain
and the head gain,
they all think they'll live to eighty.
 
But the party they voted for,
has stolen the poor man's alms
and sacked the kind nurse,
who saw many to Valhalla,
in peace.
 
Really just a cheap shed,
with naff prints of tulips
and that realisation,
that this is all there is,
after a life well spent,
remembering the grandchildren's birthdays.
 
And the shining girls where as
right as nine pence,
so I bought a small silver box,
some seed potatoes
and a fine watercolour card for mother.
 
We searched for a pub,
just following the chariot's nose,
ended up in the Pheasant.

Walsall,
a cabinet full of shiny cups,
a shamrock on the Guinness,
on Good Friday.
 
The adaptor had six plugs in it.

 
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