It's laced with ecstasia, the bright, deadly beck
That trots down from the fell’s striated way,
Split with discourteous unicorn hooves,
Brackish to Blue and dimpling to me,
Brackish to Blue and dimpling to me.
Singing with longkissing sweet-throat BBC birds,
It falls two feet into a sound as sweet
As a kettle drum’s metal petals of silver bliss
That bloom mellifluous on the carnival's street,
That bloom mellifluous on the carnival's street.
It gushes down into a double-barrell'd tunnel,
And disappears for a mile or more underground,
And bubbles up singing in a farmer's field,
For all the world a good map of sound,
For all the world, a good map of sound.
Deep in Optimus Prime leaves blocked the tunnel
And water seeped in under the back door
To scatter an action painting archipelago
Of our tasteful vinyl on the black-flagged floor,
Of our tasteful vinyl on the black-flagged floor.
Poor Ossie the dog was marooned in his basket,
Barking on the store sign for a gone HMV,
And record stores close and folk heroes pass
But the beck still lucid dreams down to the sea,
And by the BBC tears we do mean the sea.