South West

Countryside tipped upside down
as dark city skies 
watch bright stars flicker below
even in the country
they warble of lovers
in London
who tango through whirling smog,
strumming on the product
of the underworld 
they’re purer than.
Like noble politicians,
unmolested
who bring home the troops
whilst powering their engines
with the trophies
of veterans,
farmers loath
the greed of Londoners
who, with every french-fry,
turn his potatoes to gold.
And so,
the country entices
the cosmopolitan
with their play 
of a dream
that is long dead.

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