It doesn’t matter what your car
Is – Merc, or Rolls or Jaguar –
But in Rye’s streets it will be hit
By quantities of seagull s**t.
So, as the roads are tight and narrow,
Built for horse cart and for barrow,
Why spend a fortune, cut a dash
In something large, and posh, and flash
When, just the same, it will be hit
By quantities of seagull s**t.
You’ll tell me that it doesn’t matter,
All this seagulls’ messy spatter –
For to the carwash on the quay
You can repair (it’s almost free).
But you must do this every day,
Those bloody gulls won’t go away.
And take good care – YOU might get hit
By carpet-bombing seagull s**t.
Significant Sound: St Mary’s, Rye
At dead of night the bells, the bells, The quarter bells strike out with glee; The golden boys make such a sound That through the citadel resound Chimes that are out of key.
So as I lie, awake and hot
Past three o’clock – or maybe not
Three strikes, was it, for quarter two?
Or only one, torture of first degree;
Await the hour bell, in my cot,
And dreaming of my morning cup of tea . . .
The hour tells soft, I could not count
The timing of the night;
Fathoming just the minutes past
Oh God! How long will this night last
Why do I sleep so light?
(Interrupted by a girl from Tunbridge Wells)
(With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
