Kinver Edge


They carved the rocks at Kinver Edge, in years gone by when times were tough
And hermits built their homes in orange cliffs, the sandstone soft enough
To chisel out their hollow rooms. Amenities were scarce, but then
The view across the forest roof was almost worth the hardship. When
The troglodytes packed up their bags and left some sixty years ago,
Predictably the local youth moved in to carve stuff of their own,
And what were windows once became a fretwork wrought of misspelled words,
And misshaped genitals that pass as art amongst uncultured herds
Of yobbos. Should you climb those rocks you’ll find them battle-scarred these days,
A printer’s block scratched end to end with slang and rumour, deeply crazed.
So watch your step. Read if you must – you won’t find any substance there,
Just comments on Amanda’s breasts and Wazza’s filthy underwear.

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