Land of the Rising Batter

In the Land of the Rising Batter,

where rhubarb is forced against its will,

the hills are as craggy faced

as the last of the Berts and Bills,

who still grunt a greeting

at this stranger in a strange land.

There is blossomed beauty in the trees

interrupting palimpsest streets,

flagged with eponymous stone.

I feel a strange pleasure

in all the blunt honesty,

so alien to this coddled migrant.

They speak as they find -

and they find me wanting:

“no fault, mind! Tha’s just unlucky

and born outside God’s country.”