Down In The Valleys

Where the alfalfa grew, they don't have that in Wales,
only sheep, coal mines going and wheat in bales;
that alfalfa was plucked straight from 'Grapes of Wrath,'
sharecroppers hard done by, must be having a laugh.

It's not unusual to have hair of gold and lips like cherries,
only the mist furnished something to provide mysteries;
Brecon Beacons in the rain reminded you of pain again,
you must think this poem's about you - you're so vain.

I was reading 'Under Milk Wood,' with one hand on the wheel,
at last I fathomed insight as the clouds began to peel;
my father knew Lloyd George and Lloyd George knew my father,
something for everyone but devolved literature made it harder.

There was no checkpoint, only a disinterested flock of geese,
but as I came back on home ground, I felt a happy release.