Dark raven, (green).




A thousand ales on the roof,
weather breaking like a babies new tooth,
fun, fun, King’s rum,
lottsa, I gotta run.

Magic crown,
sitting down and jawing,
the Cardinal’s Hat and that.

Signing the boys of.


A Roundhead pistol
and a red mini car,
another jar, landlord,
another jar.

A fine illustrated man came in,
a satchel full of sunflowers,
remembering his betroved's anniversary,
giving his love away.

Drinkin’ a wet warm pint,
jiggin’ an’ dancin’, another hard muse day.


He told the story as pain and respectful as he could be,
his father aged six, had just left the Saint village school,
during the second world war,
united through the door.


He sat on the gate,
as his happy chums poured down the lane,
good Lord healing spring rain.

An ME 109 decided to commit a human rights crime,
having practiced on Poland and France,
it machined gunned that happy dancing line.


His father pointed his stick and opened fire,
as a Merlin Spit roared over the hill,
justice from Castle Bromwich.

Chased away the hatred,
made him pay.


That’s what he did say,
in the Swan with two Nicks,
a well built rick,
the gaffer chatting away.


Such pity should be writ down,
this charm and forgiveness,
of our paper crown.


Charles sat at one end of the table,
Oliver at the other,
as the children came in from the games in the fields
we are friends now.


The lowing of the beasts,
stormy rain falling, ripe apple trees,
humming the bees.

Dave's back gave out.


So we got a taxi home'
buddleia in the front garden,
elderberry in the back.

Let’s lay down some wine,
for the winter time.

Times gone by,
wondering why.

The black pear of Worcester,
an angry sky.

~