Nursery Rhyme For Our Time

Old MacDonald had a farm, He sold up for financial gains. Instead of crop rotation on farmland There’s 500 homes sitting on arable plains. No wheat, maize or barley growing,

Just brick weave drives around box-like homes. Instead of deer, rabbits and field mice There’s hot tubs, decking and garden gnomes. Old MacDonald put his money in the bank, Invested it in bonds and shares,

This development has ruined the countryside Resulting in concrete jungle over several hectares. Now all the locals hate Old MacDonald

For selling his farm for his wealth,

Plans changing from 500 to 1,000 homes,

Now locals can’t see a doctor on the National Health.

Old MacDonald died a very lonely man, Spending all his money on expensive care.

The locals lost out on fields and produce,

No one attended his funeral or shed a tear. Now Old MacDonald’s farm is urbanised

With Chelsea tractors all in a row. Gridlocked streets of exhaust emissions,

Air pollution or green space, e-aye, e-aye-oh!

Tony Self, Norwich, Norfolk.