Where Baseball Was Invented

Every tweed-clad soul I despise and hate
Crawled by in a procession
Of top-of-the-line Range Rovers with personalised number plates
As the crops grow tall all ambition decays
And is instead replaced by a rudderless rage

Expounded each week
Same time, same place
By white faced racists
Who crimson to pink
After seeing red
At the bottom of their tenth drink down The Kings

Then it’s on to B&T
That stands for ‘bitter and twisted’
I don’t think a better example of irony has ever existed
Or perhaps of atrophy
Time drags and sags off brittle bones in the country
There’s no cartoonishly chipper ‘very big house’ in Chippy

“You alright my duck?” says someone’s Nan to someone’s Godson’s Mum’s sister
As the sound of the hunting horn – brought forth by some bloated, birth-defect, incest lips
Is heard reverberating in the distance
The pathetic sound stirs the withered genitalia of the pugnacious huntsmen
Proof once and for all that slaughter is the most miraculous cure for chronic erectile dysfunction