Boutade
Oh land of filth and fog, of vile rain chill and stinging,
Oh land of filth and fog, of vile rain chill and stinging,
A sodden fetid
plot of vapours dank and damp,
A vast expanse of
mire and blocked roads clogged and clinging,
Brimful of gamps
and gout, of toothache and of cramp!
Oh dreary mushy
swamp, oh farmyard of galoshes,
With marsh frogs,
dredgers, cobblers, mud gods overrun,
With every shape
and size of duck that therein sploshes,
Receive this
autumn dirge from your besnotted son!
To mud your claggy
climate makes my blood set slowly;
Song, hunger, joy
and peace are all withheld from me.
Pull your galoshes
on, ancestral ground most holy,
You – not at my
request – once wrested from the sea.
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