In Buckley Oak we're for the status quo
so if new homes are built in our back yard,
like fresh verrucas sprouting on a toe,
don't be surprised to find them burned and charred.
A hospital would bring a roar of sneezes,
a tidal wave of bowels and gristly goo;
a field of turbines spinning in the breeze
would slice our blithe and chirping birds in two.
Nor do we want the muddled sludge and dung,
the pinching bugs and thickets thick with spikes,
that birdbrains call the countryside, where young
lovers rampage around on aging bikes.
We don't want much, we have a simple dream:
a perfect void that's timeless and pristine.