pic from flickr
Climbing
autumn fences
Barbed
and berried
Looking
out for the farmer
And
the long snout
Of
his shotgun
Spitting
pellets of old metal that catch a goodun
In
your slow arse
Creep
over to the trees
The
orchard a neat system of lines
Regimental
one by one
We
pick as many as we can carry, thick skinned apples
Hammocked
in our jumpers
Inside
out bellies
Running
the mile back to the estate,
Past
the infant school, the offie, the corner shop
Dad
in the pub
You
live in the Garden of England
They
tell us
Dickens,
the romans
Thomas
a becket
We
keep running
pic from shaunthesheep.wikia.com
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