Kingswood, My Hometown
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
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.