Kaleidoscope visions

 Free Dominican

Franco Ghanaian Haribo state

Forge, Forgot Ten, eleven, twelve

Indignance for victory

Vicars voweling fouls at vocal clubs

And bowling greens wear spreads of tea leaves

Predict Octopus edicts and Suliman tribes Derisive of Goalies'

Shadows

Linking shallows in epic waterways of galois glories

Versai versisimilitudes, look in longitudes

Of space nuns distracted tractor drivers collide

Headlong into herds

Whose echoes echo up Ravines

And look this green and pleasant land is ours

But what but how

What boundaries now

Dictate

The freedom of the classes?

The lower drink

And stink in pubs with grubs, and play their records loud in the

Street

And party

In their private public spaces

That suit their boundaries when it favours

Same as the gentlemen farmers

Who protect their borders with shot guns

And Retrievers, revolvers

Sheep dog scotties

Yet for one land is green and rolling

For the other it is grey and folding

All enveloping like

And envelope around them

In the concertina town

Whose

accordion breathing, heaving heavy concrete sounds

Play double in the street

Then in their beds

As they try to sleep

The farmer with his sheep and cows

Makes nightly vows in dreams

To Noah

Who will save them all

On his ark

Yet he drives them to slaughter one and all

The next morn

Showing no quarter

Just in dreams

as green and pleasant as the land he owns

As perfect down to the bone

Its marrow and its fat

Is sucked

Yet replenishes after all that

Every Springtime season

After he has sprayed it with pesticides

or coated with his pledge

He gives it rest in fallow shallow

Hedge

Where he bets his future years

In weight and balances

Pounds and ounces

And giving and receiving

Goes to town his own

The animals are fed

And another day will

dawn

In the Cow shed

Another calf is born

As in the closed quarters of the sacred cloistered halls

Of the town the mighty ministrels

Sing of bread and circuses

Like they were tangible items

For sale in Sainsbury's

But no not the retro fitted garbage these days

Blame your uncle for your parents

Don't care