The Warrior’s Reward

GOBS of rain that ride the wind, and sweep the City streets,

Through cars and buses and trains and bikes, a never-ending fleet,

Rushing bodies with stinging faces, assailed by a devilish drizzle,

A hundred odours plague my nose, as a thousand burgers sizzle.

Wherefore art thou, England? Must you remain a dream?

Of days of yore in tales of old, no visions can be seen.

Existence is pure drudgery, knee-deep I wade through slime,

Hustling, busting, rarely smiling – but hoping all the time.



Oh, to have a scabbard! With sword of gleaming steel!

That cultural turncoats by the score my bottled wrath would feel.

Through mists of thick pollution, ‘neath skies of barely blue,

Coughing, spluttering, double-deckers that yield a motley crew.

Cardiac-ridden commuters, devoid of all reaction,

A legion of headless bus-queues, the penalty for inaction.

My satiated, blood-red blade, that drips with Liberal gore,

Now thirsts for bloated usurers and bankers by the score.



My parched companion yearns, to Wapping we shall go,

But afore we slay the Gutter Press I seek the amber flow.

And then I saw my destiny, an inn that stood so proud,

An oasis in a hellish land, a sun behind a cloud.

I strode through that wooden door, that once was mighty oak,

And all at once beheld the fire that merry men did stoke.

My dry lips met the tankard; my peaceful heart was fanned,

By the sweet songs of happiness in this Bilbo Baggins land.

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