Matters into my own hands,
With whom bland sycophantic flattery
Casually forms strands up my lymph glands
Until my subject is a tied and bound
I’m a real sort of man, whom both can
And cannot be seen, visually serene
Vocally considered with morals like steam,
A helix philosophy which cleanly gleams
Oh! there is no I in this team, man,
There can and cannot be.
Betting pencil behind the ear,
We’re here to let the wet stencil dry
Unclear and form a storm of unrealised fear
Upon an individual’s broken ozone,
Freckled skin through and into bleakest
Self and within it’s emotional veneer.
Think of our purpose as clear,
In it together sever not the big dream
Shot you free lot, you odd lot, we’ve
Got dreams if you nearly forgot.
Utilise the nation’s green, horses
Make a great team at the fire station
The force can seem floored, blatant
And hell bent on law outside the raw
Shadow of a sycamore’s circumference
Succumb to a lure of a regional tourist
Boards’ gloriously toured clip art shores
The seasons make excellent lateral thinkers,
Makers, writers and painters who draw,
We wouldn’t want to be poor.
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