He ploughed the field and scattered
the good seed on his father's land
but what he sowed he hardly cared.
Nights at the pub, ogling the girls,
boozing with mates, gawping at porn—
these were the things that mattered.
One evening with the lads, he frowned
as others laughed and chattered on about
some naked Venus and her fancy bed.
But when he saw the battered card,
just what he felt, he scarcely dared
admit to anyone, until he yelled—
That ain’t no Rokeby Venus bird!
Them’s Hampshire hills! he spluttered.
The vision flared. Her body bared.
That’s Betty Mundy’s bottom!
She’s right by us! Them ups. Them downs.
Yes, how he bragged and cracked his face.
His hills! Somehow they mattered.