There is a cancer in the small market town:
	A boorish distension of red-brick rabble,
Hanging their nappies, occluding the renown
	Of postcard and brochure. Rivers which babble,
Insensible and unheard, through the tumult
	And bedlam, sadly shake their verdant manes
At degenerate bridges, bear the insult
	With burbling tenderness. Injury remains.

There is a tarnish on the "Gem of the Peak",
	As tarmac tessellations stealthily usurp
The feeble charm of the rustic, and with sleek
	And authorized vigour, estrange the frank chirp
Of the young thrush, the sprightliness of squirrels.
	Lifeless tree-lined veins garner milling brats,
Semi-detached families, ceaseless quarrels,
	Concrete isolation, ugly and ersatz.

There is a spreading sore in unspoilt Bakewell:
	Scientifically-planned crescents and views,
Sully and spread and strangle, savage and swell.
	But the heart of Baedequella lives to suffuse
And purge the heresy. The spirit lives on
	In the hedgerows and thickets and dry stone walls,
In the old church, imbrued with history anon,
	And in the friendly prate of old locals.