How many wellies fit inside a field

to grind up muck and merriment

and float on sonic sacrilege

while piss warm piss


 and cider flies about?

Roll up, roll up and dance

there’s thousands watching

you pick grit out of the eyes


of those around who’ve lost

themselves, but can you

blame them? Headless,

I would tip my hat to those


who rough it

and fuck you to those

in caravans.

If needed, pilgrimage


is pushed on bloodhounds

who always find

their way back to the sweaty

slab of dilated


ne’er do wells

and pass us water

like it’s holy.

This field is Heavenly


once a year when divine

beings belt out blistered riffs

and spark up tiffs

with strangers in tents.


I’d give my eyes to blind

kids for a shower this weekend,

but stinking high to Heaven

is how we got here.




The End

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