I am so very lucky to be living in this town,
Where youngsters say 'It's boring' and 'There's no fun to be found',
Where summer fetes can still be held upon the village green
And macho means the locals playing in the pub darts team.
In the centre of the town is the memorial cross,
Put up in nineteen twenty-one, a symbol of great loss,
Which as we pass reminds us of those men who gave their lives
To make the world a safe place for their children and their wives.
How stark the contrast is between them and the craven knaves
Who care not whether death they cause or whether life they save,
Strangers are as worthless as their own familiar kin,
While virtue's a perversion hard to distinguish from sin.
We stand upon the brink of a new topsy turvy world
Where quasi-pirate flags are fast upon new lands unfurled,
Chaos now thrives and law and order follow in its wake,
Desperately trying to foment peace for old time's sake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
On second reading, your rhyme and rhythm remind me of Chaucer.