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S.O.S. Lappersfort en Chartreuse
The Lappersfort Poets Society


(The hunt for golden eggs)

I'm not saying you shouldn't go to football matches
Or cut down the few trees left in Flanders
To satisfy some industrialist's perverted whim
And get more money more efficiently into the checkouts
Of an even bigger and better megalomarket
Catering to the insatiable wants of the millions you hope to enslave -

All I'm saying is, where will the birds' nests go when the bulldozers have done their work
And will the fowls of the air you pollute
With superfluous motorways manage to survive
Like seagulls on the rubbish heaps of places like Botswana and Brasil?

I don't ask you to read my poetry, nor do I push it through your door
So don't expect this simple-minded soul to understand
The economics of suburban destruction,
The beautifully balanced logistics of death and devious practice.
You possess the machinery (read: the machine guns of filthy lucre) to pulverize the planet
Taking us all with you, in the grey suits of Dachau,

To your Valhallah adorned with the music of exhaust pipes, chain-saws and jingling cash tills...
Paper was once precious and I have wasted enough of it
For one summer afternoon at the memorials of Mark and Melanie.
Will some young angel climb back into the arms of that majestic copper beech where thrushes sing,
Will somebody with brains be kind enough to translate this protest into the language of local politics.

Marcus Cumberlege

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