FUMING

Come friendly smog, but not on Sutton:
We village folk aren’t meek as mutton ~
Don’t you dare press that Big Black Button
Just round here.

We’ve done our bit for this great nation,
(Thirty years of power station);
Earmarked now for suffocation ~
Us? No fear!

One would have thought our Thames-side plot
One way or t’other now had got
Its share of grit and grime and grot;
Is this some joke?

We’ve taken tons of buried trash,
More yet than we’d have thought to stash,
Now we’re to breathe in toxic ash
And smile and choke?

To what need is the best solution
Belching further foul pollution,
Bringing our lives a diminution
With each breath?

Can’t we be left perchance to dream
Of skies still clear of plumes of steam,
Through which clear sunlight might yet gleam,
Not fogged with death?

Your burning process would require
That noxious products of the fire
Will irk the lungs of our church choir
Down at All Saints’:

Just ask a doctor or a Prof,
Particulates your plant gives off
Could make our singers need to cough;
What if one faints?

Already underneath one cloud,
We’re tolerant, we village crowd:
But now most smoking’s disallowed
In public air,

We recommend you spread your pongs
Well clear of our sweet Evensongs ~
That isn’t where a stink belongs ~
And go elsewhere!

We folk in Sutton and around
Are quite prepared to stand our ground
Until some other site is found
That wants your smell;

The great religions name a place,
A large and warm and final space,
So, if that truly is the case …
Go burn in H~~~ !

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