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Tripoli – coffee cups clatter
Over Arabic chatter
In the hubble-bubble café.
Gadaffi’s female bodyguards
Glare at the young English Hydrogen star
Like Gucci-sunglassed, Saharan-secret Emma Peels…
The day before The Weald.

The Arctic – a 400-pound tusked beast
Monstrously swivels on an icy piste
Its cruel black eyes a’fix-ed on a cobalt sky.
Unicorned Narwhales and huge Polar Bears
Of The Walrus, all run scared
As the ‘chopper drops whites and Campari-sauced seal…
The day before The Weald.

Manchester – “Help me up, Cob-ra…”
A deep, soft command from the bedchamber
Of the Indian batting legend.
In his prime he dominated the great Dennis Lillee
But now some dare to question his VCC Presidency
Announced by The Axis at The Red Fort Meal…
The day before The Weald.

South Downs – a lost Curry dude
And the bittersweet sound of solitude
Crunches out from his walking boots to echo off moated manors.
Through dark forests and o’er lonely ridges he strides
And in ramblers’ anonymity, from the real world he hides
As in his mind cricket dreams congeal…
The day before The Weald.

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One Response

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  1. lordozone said

    ….and not a hint of a trombone !!