After the Daffodils

#1
After the Daffodils
By
W. Wordsworthless, Esq.

The Graveyard,
St. Oswald’s Church
Grassmere
Cumberland.

I’m sitting lonely on my cloud
That floats on high o’er heaven’s hills
When all at once, I see a crowd
Of people without language skills.
Beside the flats and in the park,
Being anti-social in the dark.

Talking and texting on their phones,
And speaking words that they call rap.
They seem to be each other’s clones
Who understand this modern crap.
Ten thousand see I at a rave,
While I am turning in my grave.

The rappers and the ravers chant
While banging heads and snorting junk;
A poet could do nought but rant
At such a dreadful load of bunk.
I turned and turned, but little thought
What grief, to me, these times have brought.

For oft when on my cloud I stay
In vacant or in pensive mood
These images on my mind do play.
Which is the pain of solitude.
For then my heart with sorrow fills
At this lack of language skills.

Written by Peter Fairhurst
 

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