From his windows, through the summer,
Nappa watched the farmers working.
Sussex downlands rich with barley,
Harvested with skill and caring,
Bales of straw like buildings climbing,
Higher, wider, plastic covered.
Then came youngsters playing loudly,
Hurling down the great bales of straw.
The farmers then built stronger stacks,
Larger yet to foil the youngsters
Difficult to climb and tamper,
Ready for transporting far away.
Then last night the mists descended,
From his windows no fine vistas,
For the Nappa to consider.
Then in morning came the knowledge,
Something burning amongst the mists.
Nappa walking for his papers,
Quickly came to understand:
Policemen out directing traffic,
Firemen using Main Street hydrants,
In the mists the stack was blazing,
Local lads had done their torching.
Through the long day the Nappa toiled,
Books to Cyprus, bills to be paid.
When in evening home he drove,
No more mist but clearly showing,
Was the farmers stack still blazing.
Firemen watching, waiting, patient,
As again the mists rolled downward.
So the Nappa closed his windows,
To stop cold air and insects both,
And more, the acrid smoking straw.
Like my cold and cough, I just cannot shake off the Song of Hiawatha. Longfellow took a year and a half to write his thing, so that's my excuse for this appalling doggerel.
Maybe tomorrow I'll have shaken it all off.
