Crude

Crude

In the black tide of North Sea rigs,
crude oil sighs beneath the sky,
a viscous whisper of ancient seas,
where steel and salt in labour lie.

It flows through pipelines, thick and slow,
like stubborn thoughts that refuse to bend,
a raw, unrefined pulse of earth,
that fuels the hustle, mends the trend.

Yet crude can also be a jest,
a clumsy joke that cracks the grin,
the sort of humour that sits bare,
unpolished, honest, wearing thin.

So here’s to crude — both slick and stark,
the oil that drives our restless machines,
and the blunt, unvarnished truth we speak,
in Britain’s rain‑kissed, modest scenes.