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The Independent Culture
A survey by the National Federation of Women's Institutes says that people in rural areas are deprived of essential services and live in fear of crime.

My bike-lights pry down shiny drives

When watery autumn evenings fall

Where faux-Victorian bollards stand

"Dunhagglin", three hundred grand.

Intruder lights snap on at night

To bathe the place in stalag white

The witch-hat gable, weathercock

And mock-colonial schoolhouse clock.

The carriage wheels built into gate

For barn converted into home

With panoramic window view

And weatherboards a deal too new.

That distant man who shut the bank

It's partly him you have to thank

For helping close the grocer's down

And drive their business out of town.

Into the maws of superstores

Who bleed the village into sleep

You're going to need a car you know

A mudless four-wheel? There you go.

Essential for the darkened lanes

And best of all with bull-bars on

To guard against pedestrians

The cyclists and equestrians.

Now driving will be half your life

The surgery, post office, pub

And to your station miles away

Then ride-on mower, on Saturday.

Your kids can haunt the village green

To numb themselves on nasty beer

Then out of minds, get out of hand

Before they move to bedsit-land.

No shadows to disquiet you here

But ghosts of yokels on the road

A most exclusive residence

From In-Like-Flynn Developments.