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Scout Moor: Blown, Screwed, and Still Paying for It.
I dragged myself through bog and breeze,
Wind in my face, mud on my knees.
Expecting calm — instead I found —
A field of erections spinning round.
A forest of pricks,
Whirring away like techno dicks.
They stood there stiff, all white and proud —
A sea of shafts beneath the cloud.
They moaned and groaned with ghostly grace,
Each one a shaft in nature’s face.
They swung their blades with steady might,
Like they were spoiling for a fight.
It’s like the moor’s an adult shop,
For kinky giants who just won’t stop —
A fetish field of wind and shame,
Where moody skies and pleasure reign.
They hum like randy robots do,
From sci-fi dreams you shouldn’t view.
You watch them spin and start to doubt —
Is this what nature dreamt about?
They say they’re green; they say they care —
They f*ck the sky with eco flair.
But bills still rise, the house is cold,
And now the sheep look twice as bold.
They say, “They’ll help with cost-of-living!”
Turns out they’re better at just giving…
Looks. And vibes. And moral smugs,
While we all fork out for leccy mugs.
The smart meter flashes like it’s lost the plot,
While they just twirl and say, “So what?”
The wind howls on for days and nights,
But still we pay for dimming lights.
And don’t get me started on that drone —
A deep, slow moan that shakes your bone.
Like someone’s having airborne sex,
While we sit cold, and overtaxed.
They’re always up, they never sleep —
Like Tinder dates that ghost then creep.
I hate them most at 3am,
When my boiler wheezes, cold as phlegm.
They’re oddly sexy, oddly grim —
Like saucy chats with Uncle Jim.
You know it’s wrong; it makes you twitch —
But still, you’re laughing like you’re pissed.
They chop the view; they scar the hill —
They’re modern art meets council bill.
They’ll save the world — or so they say —
But not for you, mate. Not today.
And though I claim they’re just for show,
I’d miss them if they didn’t blow.
They’ve ruined views and spoiled the scene —
But God, those bastards are so clean.
So here’s to Scout Moor’s mighty knobs,
With blades like wings and pointless jobs.
I hate them more the more I care —
But damn, they do look good up there.