Two tawdry towns surround abounding hills,
and each of them exceeds its twin in filth.
For umbilical lack, capricious wills
demanded tar and concrete cross the tilth.
Sheep, and the sound of hounds, must make their way
to let the jetting cretins turn and chase
where only golden loneliness held sway;
this end required the making of a case.
So thumbs were licked, for sticking in the wind,
and figures fixed to filch the sacred grounds,
while ribbons crossed the map, stuck down with pins,
then metal monsters bossed about the bounds.
Yet few have come to coast the silent lanes
that shattered into shards the ancient ways,
and those we paid to serve as nature’s banes
alone shall say this road has pleased their gaze.