THE CALLS OF THE COUNTRYSIDE

It's not everyone's choice to live out in the sticks.

Remoteness and social life, don't mix.

If there's a show to be seen, or goods to be bought,

Your lost, if you haven't your own transport.

If you've not learnt to drive, and a taxi's too dear.

You'll just have to "Hoof It" or cycle I fear.

You can't catch a bus in most places today,

They were too little used, so they took them away.

There aren't any lamp posts to light the foot-path,

The verge isn't paved it's just brambles and grass.

You may often be dazzled by oncoming cars.

And you'll not see a lot, by the light of the stars

In spite of those drawbacks, I've no wish to be,.

Stuck in the city, or down by the sea.

I wake each spring morning, to the song of the birds.

The thrush and the blackbird, who's songs need no words.

The feather clad chorus in the bloom laden trees,

Is backed by the gently rustling breeze.

I wander through lanes, far away from the roads,

To the humming of bees, and the croaking of toads.

In the evening, I hear the shrill screech of an owl.

And the squawk of the pheasant, that handsome game fowl.

Punctuating the night an occasional bark.

There's a fox on the prowl, out there in the dark.

Keep your "Wolves and "Canaries", and such famous names.

I'd rather watch hares play, than most football games.

When I'm out in the garden, and stop for a break,

A robin will perch on my fork or a rake.

I don't need a chat line, for I'm never alone,

I'd sooner talk to my robin than some "Bird" on the phone.

I see ditches on bye ways, with primrose covered banks,

Would I rejoin the rat race? Thank you but no thanks.
 
 

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