Anti-picturesque

A poem expressing aversion to what is popularly regarded as picturesque

I hate the stuff: it’s only straw

For rooks to rob and rats to gnaw,

It rots in rain, traps airborne seeds,

Turns green with mildew, moss and weeds;

It creaks, it leaks, it sags, it flops,

And hours after storms drips drops;

It harbours lice and mice and mould

And festers as it fades from gold

To something neither rich nor rare

But nondescript like mousy hair;

It reeks of musty, fusty hay

And costs a bomb to trim and lay,

Yet still its image reigns supreme

As every couple’s rural dream.

Not mine! I gladly put a match

To any cottage crowned with thatch!