14 Apr 2003

It looks like I’ve been terribly remiss,
In getting round to writing this,
Several inebriated weeks have passed,
Since I submitted last,
But I guess that it’s all okay,
Coz I’m the only one who reads this anyway.
So there.

So there you are,
The late Sultan of Omar,
You’ve been hiding away of late,
Spending your days and nights asleep in the fire grate,
Making that warbling noise at eight pm each night,
You seem pale, are you quite alright?
Then I remember you were hung in 1741,
Which explains you’re alabaster complexion.

I really must up and away,
I have a vital game of hockey to play,
Even though my right shoulder is giving me gip,
And I suspect my right hamstring is about to rip;
But needs must as needs may,
Especially on this rather sunny day,
And with several key players unavailable,
Those resilient Bude men left must lay their cards upon the table,
To play together and play with class,
So to triumph and kick Newquay’s ass!

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