The Vandal's Tale (Poetry)

We don't swallow all that druid stuff - all myth and twilight zones -
beats us what is so great about a circle of old stones.
The tales they tell of whispering knights, some witch who cursed a king
and fairies - what a load of tosh - we ain't seen anything.

They're only lumps of boring rock, dead ugly, in a ring
with grass and flowers, plus some trees but nothing interesting.
We thought we'd tart it up a bit and add a lick of gloss
so gave them stones a make-over and painted out the moss.

We never dreamt we'd make the news, it never dawned on us
the joke wouldn't go down too well and there'd be so much fuss.
We only did it for a laugh, we never thought it through -
it didn't seem that big a deal, we didn't have a clue

they'd take it all so seriously when turps is all it needs
to take the paint off, after all, it's only rocks and weeds.
So why this sudden feeling that we've done some dreadful wrong?
We don't believe that pagan crap - we've said so all along -

but shadows whisper in the night and track us through the day
and dread replaces any doubt there'll be a price to pay.