To walk upon the South Downs
a pilgrim searching for a dream
the carousel inside my head still rotating
listening to the Byrds
Turn! Turn! Turn!
Eight miles high
I am 13 again
all my problems are in front of me…
When loons were jeans
not a derogatory term
to describe pitiful souls
shouting in the street
at unseen phalanxes
marching without mercy inside their tortured minds…
Welcome home old man Jones
Once “boyo” of these valleys
Is this Vegas? Or my own personal Nam!
Peace badges – flowers
Puff the magic dragon
spewing death in lead showers…
Kyle parading toothless jello-bellied monsters
to be mocked and baited
in front of those
whose mouths are as un-potty trained
as the children they send to school wearing nappies!
My working class – I weep for you…
led by Instagram’s pied piper
to nirvana in reverse…
Once cannon fodder for wars
now we fight each other
eternal gladiators of doom
forever kept in poverty
making the best of Primark couture…
Hearts of lions – yet forever poor
stuck in a chimney like a Victorian sweep’s child
While Labour’s Johnny ragers
left lighting fires – underneath those
it should be saving – yet despises
Perceived as knuckle-dragging,
pitchfork torch-holding,
racist Islamophobes
The truth oh! so different
but that doesn’t fit your ideology…
My freedom found upon these Downs
awaiting nightfall – to spy Orion’s belt
sitting at the Wilmington Giant’s feet
dreaming of returning to Lewes
My childhood home…
Urban Dandy London 
My Boyo of the valleys is a vey good writer