Half moon on Harpers Hill

Those that dreamed will dream, even though their ashes tell their secrets to an ancient sun that wore such a trustworthy smile.

And as for those that remember, we have to tolerate po-faced Lizards that claim to be, ‘Historians.’ We were robbed by the fountain pen, made cartoon and dismissed like the laborer on Constables ‘Haywain.’ What a drag these mushroom brained walking vending machine poor buggers are, who think they can discern the past, they drink too much black coffee and visit restaurants’ that charge telephone numbers for cor- don bleu, more like burred encore, cup cakes. I don’t like them.

The ghost milkman and Daisy Cricks flowerers paint a picture, now the stars still twinkle but, the paintbrush is laid aside.

Half moon on Harpers Hill, Josie and Billy rest in the cemetery where the Owl and the Nightingale harmonize.

This ancient hill where now crowded traffic pollutes the trees and the way of the horse and cart banished.

Old half moon on Harpers hill, man in the moon, what mysteries you know, the laborer’s path and the Landlords tyrant throne. Why this evil destruction of a place once called home?

Half moon on Harpers hill, those that dream will dream on still, please God, send in more dreamers.

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