Hold tight now as we glide above the night-gray slates of village rooftops.
Look into the chambers, where in creased pyjama beds,
the sleeping, wrinkle the sheets in unconscious feats of love and derring do.
Through this window, see the landlord deep in his beer-stained dream,
pull a pint using his wife's sleeping arm, and shout 'last orders'
into the face of a three o' clock, clock.
Quiet now, and listen to the threats of the cowboy, who hunts for outlaws
in the velvet grasses and pine smelling playground of forests,
that nurture the young minds of invented play.
Watch as the vicar passes out bread and fish to his parishioners,
and snores a sermon of Godliness as he blesses
the multitude on an unknown, rock scattered mount.
In this house of ill repute, the village whore dreams of
new 'leopard skin' shoes, from under her purple satin sheets
as she reaches a lifeless arm, feels for the money on her bedside table.
In the graveyard the 'duty ghost' fights to stop the wind
from lifting her trick-of-the-light gown; exposing her underwear
to the late drinker and slinking, graveyard cat.
Do you love the way the flint of the chapel glints in a moonlight shaft?
Can you hear the silent screams, under the mounds of new flowers?