Cut down that timber!
Bells, too many and strong,
Pouring their music through the branches bare,
From moon-white church-towers down the windy
Have pealed the centuries out with Evensong.
Remove those cottages, a huddled throng!
Too many babies have been born in there,
Too many coffins, bumping down the stair,
Carried the old their garden paths along.
I have a Vision of The Future, chum,
The worker's flats in fields of soya
Tower up like silver pencils, score on score:
And Surging Millions hear the Challenge
From microphones in communal canteens"No Right!
No wrong!
All's perfect, evermore."
