a course grain on our hamlet\'s field
where talks the sparrows of the primrose.
heaven seed for our heathen crows on thrones of dusted wrecks
pawning our trees for a shilling and a crucified wretch;
our ploughmans plates of cut glass steam
feeding the engines of our kings
pork fat wine in a barefoot trance
musing the sketches of our secret limps on shaken hands;
mayqueen gold; as old as the dentures of our broom
sweeps her lovers dust beneath the pale skin of her rump
thumping the chest of her soil
boiling the baskets of her bake;
with a bibles belt for the shy skin of our corn
a harvest psalm where hides our scarecrows shade
blades the hunger of our furball phlegm
with saxon eyes for the torture of our cock;
stale hens charred with a surrogate mothers love tear
her wound of war from a soldiers battle song
dies quickly her touching the muscle of his neck
lives long in the memory of his womb;
with knives and spoons
with flossed ears in a barbewire moat
in safety; far away from the numbers
how long before she hears her soldier scream?