I live in a house in the heart of a city
I always have, always will, very probably
where acres of asphalt abound and surround me
neighbours in earshot and sightline proximity
whatever I do I know they know about it
whatever they do I just don’t want to know it
where the neighbourhood thug lives within spitting distance
and his rattletrap car honks and beeps for annoyance
where the teenagers wander around until daylight
and the parents don’t bother because they think that’s all right
where bottles and pop cans and pizzas and chip wraps
are thrown on the ground by children who eat that crap
with gardens that grow mainly brat packs and fat cats
whoever would want to live any place like that
not me
I want to live somewhere that’s almost unpeopled
where the nearest they come is a distant church steeple
I want to see only the things that are pleasant
the trees and the moors and the deer and the pheasant
I just want to hear only wind blow and birdsong
I want to smell pines not the spices of Hong Kong
I want to be able to step through the front door
And two minutes later be out of the wild moors
I want to listen to muntjacs and night owls
not neighbourhood parties and screeching and foul howls
so all that I want is a place in the country
a nice little house not too big not too pokey
somewhere so peaceful I can sit back and unwind
and unburden completely this bad state of mind
no chance
I’ll be here until I die
I know I will, no need to lie
no need to hide the awful truth
I’m not a silly callow youth
there is no need to kid myself
I’ll put this dream back on the shelf
but even so I’ll hope and pray
that on some not too distant day
milady luck might smile on me
and let me win the lottery

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