The firing range dates back
Over one hundred years
But its decay is quite recent
With every storm the sea
Claims its rich reward
Stern notices instruct one not to enter
Private Property
Danger
Padlocks
Strong gates
Feeble fences
Yet if one walks a few hundred yards
Then there is a friendly gate
Which gives easy access to the firing range
An obvious notice tell visitors
That there is no access to the beach
(No Shit Sherlock)
And to be careful
As everything is ready to collapse
(Really)
The huge white cliffs are known worldwide
But are almost modest in their stature
I was Billy No Mates
On the day of my visit
(I prefer it that way)
I spent my time with the butterflies
Spectacular in colour
Who within a month
Would perish without trace
In the cooler winds
Beauty is fleeting
My friend
Beauty is fleeting
Had been crudely written nearby
It made me smile
As I am a marine philosopher
In my spare time