Pastoral by Wendy Cope

I wish I was a provincial poet,
Writing a lot about nature.
Whenever I thought about London poets,
I'd mutter darkly, ' I hate yer.'

And off I'd stomp down the wild, wild lanes
In my jeans and my Wellington boots.
A provincial poet doesn't need lipstick
Or tights or respectable suits —

The clutter of urban life. How wonderful
Just to discard it all
And spend one's time communing with everything,
Perched on a dry-stone wall.

And after a busy day communing
To amble back home for a bite,
Then go to the pub with some real people.
Who manage twelve pints in a night.

Which helps them get through the provincial evenings
Without too much boredom or pain.
Real people, as solid and ruddy and calm
As a London bus in the rain!

Some day I'll go and live in the country
And many a notebook I'll fill
With keen observations of animals (mostly
The dead ones because they keep still).
Dead sheep and squashed rabbits. Oh how I shall love it,
My face will be peaceful and brown
And shining with love for all of creation.

Excepting those poets in town.