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I wish I was a provinicial poet,
Writing a lot about nature,
Whenever I thought about London poets,
I’d mutter darkly, ‘I hate yer.’
And off I’d stomp down the wild, wild lanes
In my jeans and my wellington boots.
A provinicial poet doesn’t need lipstick
Or tights or respectable suits –
The clutter of urban life. How wonderful
Just to discard it all
And spend one’s time communing with everything,
Perched on a dry-stone wall.
And after a busy day communing
To amble back home for a bite,
Then go to the pub with some real people,
Who manage twelve pints in a night,
Which helps them get through the provincial evenings
Without too much boredom or pain.
Real people, as solid and ruddy and calm
As a London bus in the rain!
Some day I’ll go and live in the country
And many a notebook I’ll fill
With keen observations of animals (mostly
The dead ones because they keep still).
Dead sheep and squashed rabbits. Oh, how I shall love it.
My face will be peaceful and brown
And shining with love for all of creation,
Excepting those poets in town.
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I love Wendy Cope! She always gets it dead right. I can’t think of anything worse than sitting on a dry-stone wall for an afternoon – except possibly standing on a dry-stone wall.
Comment by Wyndham November 13, 2005 @ 9:52 pmThat’s hiliarous! What a great poem.
Comment by Kyahgirl November 13, 2005 @ 11:41 pmSo, I guess you’re not ready to change your name to Country Chick? 🙂
i have no words. literally none. shall regroup and come back in a bit.
Comment by surly girl November 14, 2005 @ 10:48 amI like that, must go look up more of here work
Comment by Aginoth November 14, 2005 @ 12:19 pmAnd there was me, thinking “gosh, that urban chick, she’s really good at poetry”…
Comment by Pashmina November 14, 2005 @ 5:10 pm