The Land Where The Bong Tree Grows
I write of reason’s hinterland,
the land each dreamer knows
And where I now feel most at home --
It’s where the Bong Tree grows.
Where all one’s goods can be contained
in just a five pound note,
And all its new arrivals fit
in one small pea-green boat:
Where politicians don’t exist
and banks don’t make a killing,
Where no-one cares that GDP
amounts to just one shilling:
Where sandy beaches have no oil,
no screaming kids or bars
And songs are backed by nothing more
than small non-amped guitars:
Where cats and owls dance hand in hand
replete on quince and honey --
And those who write this kind of verse
can all earn steady money.