My love of Beauty, nurtured through the years,     

Of form and fair proportion’s served me well.    

Yet often I ask: where does my true love dwell?   

Within my soul; this heart; these eyes; or ears? 

Does she conduct the music of the spheres? 

Or, sit in silence sweet on Lakeland fell? 

Are roses’ heavenly scent bound by her spell?    

Her spirit surely lives in all...

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https://youtu.be/vqJHUkOTLOQ

From the frying pan

Of lying thieving scumbags,

To Tory-lite fire;

The tool-maker’s son,

Palestine’s blood on his hands,

Purging our Red Rose.

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