Little Miranda, free-range parent,
Knows the world revolves around her son
Who, in an orgy of free expression,
Wobbles our foamless cappuccinos
By his undisciplined table-top dance.
Dusty bookshops, fusty tombs
Of long-dead tomes,
The bulk of which would stand no chance
To grace our homes.
All this brings me to cry:
“Why, oh why is Hay-on-Wye?”