The worst poem ever written.
Well, what did you expect?
Strikes no chords, hits no buttons,
Just leaves you all perplexed.
The Language of Love is not taught in our schools.
Its grammar and lexis “too hard”,
“Too complex” its rules
For the average pupil to master.
Our progress through life is marked off by milestones.
The first is when we reach the age of ten –
We feel so much bigger having hit double figures.
The second’s when we turn thirteen –
In Wales there is a valley,
Which isn’t very green.
The hills are bare, wild flowers are rare,
Trees few and far between.
They say all men are brothers.
They say all cows eat grass.
I have gone with the flow,
I have swum with the tide,
Boarded block-booked trains,
Enjoyed the ride.
This land was theirs before this land was yours.
From Eastern Seaboard to the Western Shore.
Before the Pilgrims beached at Plymouth Rock,
The Redskinned Folk the Bering Strait had crossed.
The Church, the Post Office, the Bank,
Alright, but the pub is the hub.
The Village Hall or Green, the car boot sale,
Life is long.
Love is strong.
Flesh is weak.
Love is deep.