Tennyson's Untreated Butane Vat Goes Whoosh
Come into the garden, John, for the dark bat night has teeth
While raven saddled, night mares ride upon the dewey heath
Into England's vanquished landscape, where buttercups don't grow,
look in the hedgerows for Blackbird and Crow
A secret garden, John, where faceless children hide
From ghosts set on by Eliot, that dream merchant
Of menace
Who did not as much as set foot
For there were no feet to be had
Which is bad,
As bad as the clandestine garden is wide
Where the tendrils bristle, and the darl lank toad creeps for safety
Darling quietly as he goes.
'How I love the Spring!
Especially the pointy bit that pokes through the old mattress!'
Go unto the breach, dear John, for the wind is singing low
In a voice that shook our palaces four hundred years ago
Or yesterday
| Contributors: | Apsley, Englishqueen, Nigel Sly, dan, Beefy, fester. |
| Poem finished: | 19th April 2002. |