It was a far cry from the wail that finished off

any love I felt for the town

that nestled between drowning rivers

and the place where the white hart died

centuries before, running out of steam

on pastured land and from where

a rotten borough took place;

gentle snoozing town,

I was out of place, despite having

the strongest of connections

in a cottage in Peter’s Finger.

 

This hamlet market town, the piper of county

thought and woe betide country way,

never step out of place,