Chargement...

Asylum

The love of England is in me,
She’s got her root in my soul,
A rolling hillock of a woman,
Supping 'til her belly got full.
Her breath of wind will taste of salt
Blown in from Dover’s beaches,
Those eyes in the sky
Bright blue sky
Bring a peach blush, like peaches.
 
The cities are too much for us now,
Too much computer, too much phone,
You lose the earth’s soul you search for
Really search for
And only find when alone.
But Cambridge has a flavour too
Walks on the Backs, punters in canoe,
Where Christmas can take you in an icy sharp bite,
Where refinement is real, touchable, bright,
Tourists are tame, animals in a zoo,
Behind the bars and watching you too.
But rising at five, with the sun out of bed,
Tired of night after night of giving 'em head,
With gold in the sky and mist on the earth,
With dew on the dew drops, a second new birth
There’s a freshness that’s new after nights of being dead,
Where nothing is felt and everything said.
 
When the sea’s roiling and pitting and sucking
And clutching you up and down,
When the rain’s drenching and singing and fucking
And you can never even make a sound,
Cornwall and Ireland are washed and cleansed,
Willingham is muddied and returned to the fen,
And London gets colder and smuttier even,
And I carve my soul out of the ground.
I’ve got England right inside me,
Her claws go straight to my soul,
The Old England of green and freshness of sunrise,
Before Industrialisation and coal.
Men have played this world for money,
And come up nearly skint,
Money drives England but it don’t drive me,
Deep down I am flint.
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Autres oeuvres par Eleanor Chapman Drake...



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