May holy men save me from the I.D ode,
spoken with self-assuming air
from he who makes every hide his court,
from Frieston Shore to Ynys Hir
In judgement he sits, his toadies about him,
Bavarian optics poised to tilt
And Oh my Good Gracious! Don't you doubt him
that glance can make a nettle wilt
With over-exaggeration, now he's focused
the very scrape seems to cringe in fear
And Lo! he speaketh, and with volume sufficient
that all of North Norfolk may hear
"Third from left, Larus, and despite the pink tarsi,
I'm claiming michahellis, the first of the year. No rouge on the gonys, the tertials are slated, she's a second winter, or I'm a damn cur!"
May holy men save me from the I.D. ode
bring peace to the marsh, and the wood, and the lane,
leave the gulls to their gentle, waterside roosting,
and make it so I never see him again.
spoken with self-assuming air
from he who makes every hide his court,
from Frieston Shore to Ynys Hir
In judgement he sits, his toadies about him,
Bavarian optics poised to tilt
And Oh my Good Gracious! Don't you doubt him
that glance can make a nettle wilt
With over-exaggeration, now he's focused
the very scrape seems to cringe in fear
And Lo! he speaketh, and with volume sufficient
that all of North Norfolk may hear
"Third from left, Larus, and despite the pink tarsi,
I'm claiming michahellis, the first of the year. No rouge on the gonys, the tertials are slated, she's a second winter, or I'm a damn cur!"
May holy men save me from the I.D. ode
bring peace to the marsh, and the wood, and the lane,
leave the gulls to their gentle, waterside roosting,
and make it so I never see him again.