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.
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.