There’s a tent in a garden
by a stately home
where butter, yeast and flour
Where Mary Berry detests soggy bottoms
and an orange man scoffs bakers’ dozens.
It’s a quaint sort of place
and the people kind of funny
but in that tent
they try and bake community.
There’s a tent in a field
by a world famous stage,
where virginities are flung away
as folk come of age.
Where you find yourself or just get lost
and beers are double the cost.
It’s the sort of place
where drugs foster a weekend’s amity
and in that tent
there’s intimate community.
There’s a tent in a jungle
between a wall and a motorway
where a cut won’t heal
and plasters are torn away.
Where bulldozers roam outside,
and you befriend those who haven’t died,
or not, and it’s isolation, assault or suicide.
But it’s still the sort of place
that despite a world of hostility
they stitch up broken hope
to try and make community.
If only it were so simple,
if only it were true,
but, listen, because there’s one more thing
I must tell you.
That there is a tent on a world quite far from here,
where there is so much more than this,
it’s near the planet of Happy Ending,
it is called Kept Promise.
The tent is world wide,
it protects all from hail and glare,
and there, on that distant place,
they have found the secret of life,
they have learned how to share.