Our John Bull is in trouble,
seeking the streams that babble,
Yearning for the happy home of the meadows
but when summer travails her way to pillar coast,
he becomes a moaning widow.
The day’s wake greets the scornful searing of John’s plaintive mumble.
Urghh, not again, his mouth drawled a mournful niggle.
How dreadful is the lazy dawn in schooling bubble.
John has no window to harvest the dying birds from the far away meadow.
How thoughtful, his sulking bed bought him a shadowy mirror.
The playful rays mope in hopeful warble,
“Summer is nigh,” it sings to John’s shambles.
Sometimes, breakfast savages Ole barner’s orchard.
Now, how stray he would be on the hills of Mama Richard.
Mum ruffles the wispy tufts of his hair on a sunny whistle,
“Come off it,” will nature man you up in its rustle?
Dad attacks his fury a day from the meadow.
Swinging in iron bars, how repulsive they were.
In it sat a sweet swelling sparrow.
She sings a sobbing song of free slavery.
She is happy to sit in John’s imagery.
On his way through winter’s castle,
he sways in sighing shamble,
dancing to the doleful chirping and mountain’s bustle.
Would nature ever be free?
Not even the wildest of wild could see.
I say he looks worn by spring hustle.
At school, his ears are at galeful bay
listening to the roaring sea world in doubtful gay.
Would the mild robes of school bed
soothe a wild John in torn shred?
He decides the speaking seat of a captured tree.
Lost in gaze at the lemon grass in teacher Tanna’s tea.
The pile of bickering notes
rattles to him the cruel sofa of flogging notes.
Could he help his demented head?
Why are the flowers pruned to its dead?
The school robs its beauty from nature.
Why, the flowers a forlorn look of misplaced treasure.
Can’t I learn issues from nature?
The birds are ever beeping teachers.
That ever babbling stream could be an adept professor.
The forest sits on natural rules hoping to be heard.
At the bleak of a gloomy day,
when school closes its torturing gay,
John bull is in trouble,
mourning with the springs that burble.
When mother’s heart heeds the call of wrath
and dad bellows at meadow in wilful breath,
dinner hums a repelling song
for Little Bit has lost the bubbling gong.
When will I see my summer?
each day plays the tune of our creed.
Could I coax the sun to play my bride?