In Rhondda, Dave the Druid lies,
Where slowly brew the herbal teas!
The incense sticks shall ward off flies
And scent his grave with odour’d breeze!
In yon deep pile of tie-dy’d sheets
His ethnic drums shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart to bongo beats,
May dance on pills while music’s play’d.
Then maids and youths shall whitey here,
And, while the ganja’s pass’d around,
Shall sweetly seem in Gaia’s ear
To hear some righteous reggae sound.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the hills
When Wales with pissing rain is blest,
And oft suspend the farmer’s thrills
To grant his worn-out ewe a rest.
And oft as Sloth and Vice repair
To squatters’ den or commune vile,
The friend shall view yon hippies’ fair
And at the dreadlock’d crusties smile.
But thou, who own’st that hash-deck’d spot,
Ah! what will every bong avail?
Or joints, endow’d with finest pot,
That turn their smokers’ faces pale?
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine, somewhat small?
For him, sweet Dave, may Mojo die,
And Che desert his poster’d wall.
But thou, foul stream, whose filthy tide
Bears condoms us’d and rizzlas torn,
Now waft me from the drench’d hill’s side,
Where many sandal’d drop-outs mourn!
And hear, the rhythmic bongos fade,
Bright Day has hush’d the wasted crew!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
The vicar’s child, again adieu!
The muddy meads, assign’d to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy timely doom,
Their drugg’d-up flower-girls shall dress
With Afric beads thy Celtic tomb.
Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall tease the tripping Briton’s eyes:
‘Shrooms! Frogs in pink pearls,’ shall he say,
‘In Rhondda, Dave the Druid lies!’