When I think of Oscar Wilde
Or the diaries of Samuel Pepys
The memoirs that they have both filed
Conjure images of history deep
So I’m finding it hard to picture
Surrounded by my thoughts misgiving
How the places they wrote in their scripture
Compare to the places I’m living
They wrote about the famous city
They appear in the book of doomsday
I live in places less gritty
That only has markets on Tuesday
The writings of Tennyson and Wells
Swell my mind with mystery
They create images and cast spells
Of a time with tangible history
At least I’ll never lose a word
Or misplace my sepia imagery
But my poems will go unheard
And aren’t pondered over cynically
Their memories they put up for posterity
Whilst smoking and drinking a dram
Are lacking the classy comparity
To my Woking and my Gillingham
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