My country is a ladenbox,
a spillinggift, a weatherwalk,
that marks its time in barleyclocks
and lights the night with firetalk.
We’ve bakergrass and butcherskin
And bevybags of appledrops,
though some may pick the biscuit thin
and some may gorge on gluttoncrops.
But best of all, and this we share,
though moneythin or moneyfat,
that we’ve all come from everywhere
and that’s our shining gloryhat.