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Bagpuss was buried, in a deluge, at dawn,
Postman Pat cried at the grave.
At the back, Alex deLarge just yawned,
Henry’s Cat tried to look brave.
England is a tangled, mongrel ball
Of wool, and you choose your own strand.
Be Nogbad the Bad, or Flashman, the cad,
Or join Robyn Hode’s Merrie Band.
We each have a line, and at the end of mine
Waits a crapulent Enderby,
With a verse-filled tub, and a half-filled cup
Of glue-warm stepmother tea.
Bagpuss was buried, in a deluge, and
The cemetery wept under the strain
Of a million Bank Holidays of rain.
July 2007
