Circus

Beneath the bridge of Potter battered,
By the haunts of cross-eyed coot,
We sail through waters litter-scattered,
Plimsolls shivering underfoot.
And gales do whistle overhead,
And dawn sees Harriers out of bed,
And there for me my cup of tea
Do fill the bilge of Sabrina Three.

When yachts that lately were ashooting
Bridges, moor up in the reeds,
And motor cruisers hush their hooting,
Their propellers fouled with weeds,
And grey pronged ronds bury their teeth,
In cloying mudbanks underneath,
And there for me my cup of tea,
Do make me want to go and +++++

Let Carribeans sail by faster,
In the gloom of smoke filled rooms.
I do not dread a strong sou'wester,
Which dispels those diesel fumes.
I'd be free to sail the Broads
In company of Harrier hordes,
To where for me my cup of tea
Do sweetly stir my memory.