The Plansters Vision

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."