It is the Land of Folklore <br />Where dreams drift by in a dull roar <br />And the smell of burning petrol <br /> <br />It is the Land of Motherly Love <br />Where the women all wear velvet gloves <br />To hide their clawd fingers <br /> <br />It is (at last!) the Land of Industrial Beauty <br />Where poetry lies dead in the Line of Duty <br />Where the winters are stiflingly cold <br />And the summers burn holes <br />In the heaviest of clouds <br /> <br />It is the land of Gog Magog <br />Where the music screams in the smothering fog <br />Like an army of electric drills <br /> <br />It is a country for old men <br />Its sky id full of poets and wrens <br />(their smell, somewhere, still lingers) <br /> <br />Where is it now, the Land of Green Pastures <br />Where the democratic slavemasters <br />Made their trembling armies dance? <br />Did their knees buckle, did they lose their stance? <br />Did the rain break up the crowd?<br /><br />Mark Tapley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fresh-green-mine-fields/
