From down in the village to up Frankley Beeches

they've levelled the thickets and ironed the creases

to cultivate houses and make the earth faster

where horse-dung and cow-shit once plastered the pasture.

We're safe from the tarmac on this local landmark;

folk come here on purpose to spot flying saucers.

As if alien agents seeking intelligence

would settle their spaceships in Brum's outer limits.

Ridiculous, innit? Not credible, surely,

that strangers would travel from Alpha Centauri

to mingle and wait on the Frankley estate

and speak utter rubbish like authentic Brummies

but what other explanation can there be?