In the land of Mordor, where the furnaces roared,

And the grass was blasted black,

You can stand on a hill that looks out to the Urals,

Toward Tolstoy and Pasternak.

 

Ghosts of industry haunt the museums,

And the town shuts down after dark.

Where numb was the colour of the afternoon sky,

And at night, ablaze with red sparks.

 

Black Country bards breathe tortured vowels,

And the letter H is superfluous.

Where caverns once sang while the pick-axes rang,

Mining the tunnels below us.

 

Voices take flight in the pitch-dark night,

Finding their mark with a groan.

As homeless feet walk the street,

You steal the idea for a poem.

 

Lyrical licentious streams of consciousness

Gather dust on shelves.

You can model yourself on whoever you like

And sing a song of the self

 

Whitman and Wilde speak of heavenly bliss,

While they lie on leaves of grass.

But the Judas Kiss of Lord Alfred Douglas 

Will eventually come to pass.

 

Ezra Pound stands accused with his modernist muse

As we serve up his head on a platter.

And Elliott reflects on his metors neglect,

What happened in Italy still matters.

 

Discordant diversions make familiar assertions

That come true in the fullness of time.

What remains of beat-culture feeds like a vulture,

On the carcass of meter and rhyme.

 

Young men howl as their minds are destoyed

By nightmares in peyote dreams,

That tell of a future of furious fire,

While the B52 engines scream.

 

Newport, electrified, retreats petrified.

'Like A Rolling Stone' is let loose.

If Dylans visions could only be seen,

They'd put his neck in a noose.

 

You have nothing to lose but your vanity,

So step up and have your say.

Bare your soul; let your stories be told,

Down at the Poetry Cafe'.