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Poem

This land is my land
Happy place in this book of sorrows
Where gargoyles gather
Yesterday, today and tomorrow
And never have to prepare faces
To meet the faces they meet
Mostly because as faces go, we have none
Ask Eliot, we have been called inebriate
Full of new wine, but there is more
I always say there is always more
The analysis is wrong of course
And only those in the know would know
Like I said, Lord, we are here
A gathering of voices, not disembodied
But disregarded, the sight of us vurulent
The sight of us appals a few. Turbulence
The needles in their misery meters 
Rush to the easiest conclusions
Masses of contusion will cause confusion
Before they know me they judge me
And then they downplay their judgement 
But why should I complain and sound plaintive
In the words of Lord Faarquar
It's rude enough being in the space we share

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