Cotton fluffy clouds
sailing in clear blue skies
English roses blooming
in perfect English gardens.
Perfect English oak trees
rooting to the Magna Carta
in this perfect English village
with its perfect village green.
Connie recalls her night of lust and smiles drifting into dreams of Oliver. Clifford seeks comfort in the Sunday Telegraph brooding over affairs of state and the dark satanic mills turning to the winds of Europe. Wrapped in the Union Jack he hankers for the day when freedom will come to his hallowed land again.
At the fete
jealous wives watch with envy
sweet half-virgins of sixteen run around in skimpy dresses selling kisses for a shilling,
jolly Morris dancers are dancing on the green, stalls are selling fruitcake and strawberries with cream. The vicar in his pulpit seethes with righteous anger
and like a soul possessed preaches yet another sermon to an empty church and England's heart
will beat for ever in this perfect village green.
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