To Cut A Poppy, Tall Or Otherwise

Poem By Ivan Pine

The fields are strangely quiet
Around Belgravia now,
The is no bleating of the sheep
Or lowing of the cow.

Decisions made in obscene haste
Yea, made in ad hoc fashion,
Have made a fool of commonsense
And killed a youthful passion.

Those who cared, to think a bit
For the longer term,
Were cast aside, in a cowards way
By those who will not learn.

If this is to be the future
It has a funny taste,
I cannot bide my time and see
Such capital laid to waste.

But fools and farms are surely parted
It only takes some time,
We do not want to be tainted
By acts that smell of slime.

Not only was the flock split up
And buyers stayed away,
We watched as all our work was trashed
And bitter was the day.

To load the sheep, we steal our soul
And do this dreadful task
So we wear a face of stone, no care
It’s just a foolish mask.

We watch the ewes and lambs
Struggle through the mud,
Bleat with fear ‘Til none too soon
The door, in closing, thuds.

Its well before the dock is clear
That the reality sinks in,
What has been committed
Is clearly just a sin.

The rain itself comes and goes
With natures willful way,
Makes us smile and curse and
Fills the fields with hay.

Our hearts are heavy, heads held high,
But we do our duty,
To let some faceless shame
Waste away the booty.

And so are dreams, laid to waste
By what’s hanging on the wires
I look about and think a bit
What a man can /could do with pliers.

All in all, friends were made
And we shared so many things,
We look towards the future
Head up, for what it brings.

IvP 2005

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On the shoulders of giants we stand
To grind to dust our ego and pride.
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Winding around the tower shivers down my back.
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And my eyes do fill with tears,
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