Get Your Premium Membership

England

The enemy within the wold of God, 'i've had enough of your infernal creation'he cries, A smattering of original art, daubs the walls, Money hellbent antiques and platicine sheep, No england, great England, whose country houses are so dry, and art collections not appreciated, he ships them out to the poor, Oh english ignorance a thing of beauty is a joy forever, Not a million toy, A real piece of art holds meaning beyong tears, And the better the poor who have none, Cry a little for what he has done.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2010




Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.


Book: Shattered Sighs