Go out, good son, traipse off across the hill,
in glowing hood, with lewd nocturnal eye.
Go out and slouch across the walls of dawn,
all aptitude and bluebell pride and tooth.
Go out, my son, and stave a whitethorn beast
by ancestral grin and doggedness in rain.
Defy, my son, the pasture, the imperial sheds;
with nettle mind, defy the piercing town.
And when by farming, son, the farms are lost,
and tangled night becomes a badger throne,
then restore, my fattened son, the digging way,
unlatch the earth, release your father’s bones.