The Hanging

we're back in the country, back in the cake
the secret ingredient that we've been told we make,
and i've crawled up north to the land of less stress,
and there's nothing but beauty up here to impress,
but it's good to see family, catch up with their tales,
sit in the conservatory, ignore calls for sales,
and greenhouse my brain through the double glazing,
grow fat and complacent with nothing but lazing,
excepting the requisite employment search,
for the government aid and the blessings of church,
the only thing happening to make me smile,
is trying to heap water into little piles,
and piles of course are no laughing matter,
they leave (i've heard) your backside in tatters,
but back to the point, the real bloomin' point,
the thing that'll hit you arthritis does joints,
which was the attendance by me and the villlage
of the social highlight in our cultural spillage,
when we went up the hill on a perfect dark day
where we gathered round eager in the battered down hay,
in front of the tree with the best limbs around
which the committee declared simply the BEST lynching ground,
and the excited chatter was brought to a hush
as the victim was rolled out, no hint of a rush,
and the local MP unveiled the beast,
that haunted the townsfolk and MUST be deceased!
It was fearsome alright, with dangerous eyes
and was covered in feathers that were clearly disguise,
and in it's defence, this hideous chicken
was allowed one strangled noise, which imagined the stricken,
and they hoisted him up on the smart little platform,
stuck his chicken's head through the noose they'd made for 'm
and they let the curr drop, let out a huge cheer,
they yelled out in triumph and spilled half their beer,
for the chicken was gone and with it his crime,
no longer would he poison and pollute with his rhyme,
and his love of "men" which was downright wrong,
he should mate with girl chicks and enjoy sexist songs,
he had had no right to go fancying men,
he should have known his place, and his place was the pen,
so the villagers had acted, through the will of the God,
and the evil had been smitten, with a length of rough cord,
and the village was better now, better and clean,
there was nothing but saturdays that could be called obscene,
and most of all, and this was the achievement,
they'd cleared out the "different", and saved us bereavement,
for the laws really work, nothing bad can get in,
and we showed that we'll kill all "chickens of sin"
so our lovely village with it's black little sky
will never utter the words "maybe" or "why"
and in a hundred years time, we'll just be the SAME,
and our grandkids will celebrate our FREEDOM FROM PAIN.