Flip the coin over onto its other side and you will see its all shiny
Look at the other side first
From underneath and
where custard comes from.
And discover a future Britain of dazzling intensity
where the Aces line-up with paint brushes in hand ready to creosote this land
with the best paint money can buy for sunshine, sleet, snow or rain.
Where candlesticks march down the road taking scented candles by the hand
and swirling them in a dance towards a field of swaying red carnations where
trumpets sing the song of the cricketers wedding ring and how it got lost then
found again and again and again. Where marching bulldogs of pedigree parade
with their chums in a never ending procession of Britains pets, mongrel and otherwise.
Where teabags soaked in boiling water are transported to compost heaps the nation-wide,
where bees dance out of their hives in a jive with the sun, where pigeons peck, where pot
holes fill themselves. This land, This Britain, where custard comes from.
Rise, rise, rise. Like a bun in the oven. Rise. Flip over your coins. Bury underneath. Where
custard comes from.