The Bosun

He’s retired and lets you know it,

He is County and he shows it,
And the past was ruled by people such as he.
And he went ‘orf’ to public school
Where he was taught the golden rule
To be top-dog is where you ‘weally’ ought to be.
He was once a city broker,
Who enjoyed his gin and poker,
And then married into title like his dad.
His wife has finger waves and pearls,
And coffee mornings with the girls
And he‘s known her since he met her when a lad.
And now both bloated and with jowls
They will still pronounce their vowels
And say You, and I, and One, but never Me.
And their voices always carry,
All the way to ‘Captain Harry’,
Their sail boat moored along the jetty by the quay.
He’s the bosun of the sailing club,
‘His Lordship’ in his local pub,
And is Hon Sec of the annual flower show.
He’s the village hall maintainer,
And a keen Green Belt campaigner
And a thoroughly useful chap to get to know.

The Bosun
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