Kingswood, My Hometown

Poem of my nostalgia


Where did I live?

I come from a place

Of moderate space

Where the local bar

Is named the White Star

A place so rural, when I was born

Within my mouth, was a cob of corn

As I grew up with my mates, sometimes we’d be lifting weights

Or with my other pals, we’d run amok with the owls

Kingswood’s the name

My neighbourhood, quite plain

But walking in the hills

You could come across a mill

With a dark dungeon that once conjured

A thrill.

As for the local Spar

At the time, it seemed beyond par

We didn’t even need to walk very far.

Now Kingswood calls me back

Was it really much fun?

For I’ve developed this knack of staying on the run

In a dusty old land

With its oh-so-hot sun

And in letters home stories are spun

Of lively fiestas instead of sweaty siestas

So, if you don’t care about good food in your mouth

Fly to Birmingham then head south.

In our fields, the grass is long and green

Though, from our dealers good grass is rarely seen

Yet, strong cider flows

And those in the know call the Wurzels to sing.

I love to learn new facts and insight to better understand this crazy world we live in. Let me do what I can to distract you from your life’s drudgery.

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