The Bucolic in Its Purest Form

We are untutored serfs
On some great estate
The orchard is replete
With soft, summer fruit
And the pulp seeps
From a hill of ripe peaches
The villagers live
In ancient stone cottages
This is the bucolic
In its purest form

The fattened calf
Makes a sumptuous feast
It catches the hungry,
Glittering eye
Of the virgin bride
A slum hospital
Delivers fodder
For future canon
And the mother country
Gives birth to colonies

And we are not fit
To utter the names
Of dead generals


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