It is the Land of Folklore
Where dreams drift by in a dull roar
And the smell of burning petrol
It is the Land of Motherly Love
Where the women all wear velvet gloves
To hide their clawd fingers
It is (at last!) the Land of Industrial Beauty
Where poetry lies dead in the Line of Duty
Where the winters are stiflingly cold
And the summers burn holes
In the heaviest of clouds
It is the land of Gog Magog
Where the music screams in the smothering fog
Like an army of electric drills
It is a country for old men
Its sky id full of poets and wrens
(their smell, somewhere, still lingers)
Where is it now, the Land of Green Pastures
Where the democratic slavemasters
Made their trembling armies dance?
Did their knees buckle, did they lose their stance?
Did the rain break up the crowd?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.