Y Cymoedd

Following on from the same thematic elements of the last entry, this piece Y Cymoedd (or, The Valleys) is a reaction to the incorrect realities that have been edited into one hour slots for the post-watershed ‘entertainment’ hounds.

 

Y Cymoedd

Wolves in sheep’s clothing pull the wool over our eyes,

an engineered existence, verity excised.

These are the tales from the closed mines told by closed minds.

 Just because I’ve got my tits out

does he think he’s getting some?

Nye’s legacy cauterized as television is Tredegarized.

.

Inspired immorality, idols left rotting.

Our forefather’s fights; fought fiercly but forgotten.

Faceless axemen greelight the world’s ammunition.

Fucking guns? The only shooting I want to do

is my load on her tits.

Furore catalysed as we are sensationalized.

.

Heritage coughs bile in our failure to expose

the low-cut top revolution, wits decompose into

Putresecent princesses, repugnant rogues in vogue.

 I was staring at his balls

and thinking fuck, they’re massive.

The sad clock frowns from her tower as we are ostricized.

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