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This land is:
Our land,
Ireland . . .
The ampersand land of
Fathers afore,
Our forefathers,
And at least four
Mothers, to be fair (or sure);
Former others,
Toomevara to Kildare.
Father land.
Mother land.

All over this . . .

There’s many twixt cup and lip.
Land ho!
A sense of humour is vital.
Land of hope and glory.
Is it really?
A land of the brave, home of the free.
Land owners.
Get off MY land.
But my land is your land.
Such landscrapes!
He floundered:
A landed fish.
Take note, I said.
Fish do not
Love the land,
For they drown
Gasping for air upon it.

Just watch the flounder err.

The landed gentry:
What of the landed ladyry —
Did they land well?
I’ll take the highland, and you
Take the lowland.
Then let us drive away
In a landaulet carriage,
To fantasy argh-land,
Ire-land, our land, island.
The plane! The plane!


The Land of Nod:
Preludes and nocturnes.
You like Chopin but I
Like choppin’ an’ shoppin’.
James Dean — big chopper.
A man of sand.
No man is an island.
Islands in the stream.
You scream,
‘Eye creme!’
‘Ice cream!’ I scream.
Arse cream tooting
Fireworks and kazoos.

Baby you’re a . . .

On the never, never,
Ending story.
An ending story —
Never for some,
Hidden and found
On unholy ground,
Peter Pan’s dark disgrace . . .

A land of hurt, this place.

La-la land:
Tell that to Tubby.
I believe you’ve visited;
Is the weather clement?
‘Yes it is,’Freud replied,
Or was it Attlee?

What weather we’re having!

Master of the Free House.
Master of his rented accommodation.
And servant.
Ah, Rigsby!
Oh! Miss Jones.
Are you a landlubber, me hearty?
I lub my land almost as much as I lub you.
This land that time forgot.
Yet I shall forever remember,
Without choice.

Wonderland: Mad as a mercury-addled hatter.

A lady to land upon;
A shoulder to cry upon, anon.
Why aye? Go on.
B&B she’ll comply
With the drinks she will ply.
Must soldier on,
Stand your ground on
In times bygone, on and on . . .

Eyes land upon her.

The Promised Land:
Promises all broken.
Broken, somehow,
Whilst the land of the living,
Doubles as the land of the dead,
Often unnecessarily.
Ultimately pertinent in every case,
At least once with the moon landing

This feels like some enchanting landmark.

Or so the tuppence said
Midst the mess of thoughts just read;
Both legs and ears cocked,
A pot of words crocked,
And what’s left to be righted
Whilst stranded and blighted
& . . .
(so said the ampersand)
Is it to be landlocked, cock
Or ought ye strive to unlock your rock?
The Cloud surveys all standing under,
Recognizing it as blunder
To be trapped within the mapped
In clapped-out histories crapped.
So meld the world as one, all lands;
Don a unifying face as each homeland stands;
Smiling together as one glorious place;
For ye are all but one human race.

[Meum est terra vestra terram]