Dear, Sweet, Ailing England

You are my hostess, not my home ;
Away from you I like to roam.
Agreed – a green and pleasant land,
But not if homes are built on sand.

Your gates swung open ! – In we came
Like Irish to the Statue’s flame.
But now your stature’s sinking fast ;
Your glory days comprise the past.

“Tired of London / Tired of life”,
But glad was I to leave that strife
And hurry to these village hills,
Away from concrete’s subtle ills.

Until I realized : near this scene
Are multiples of Milton Keyne.
The soul-less housing (cursed “estates”)
Which, like disease, proliferates.

I’m in a siege, surrounded by
Developers who have an eye
To eat the hills and drink the streams ;
Devouring Britannia’s dreams.