In England\'s meanest bog,
as the clock struck the hour 13.
With gas and odours rising,
it\'s smell so pungent and mean.
There came a man of bones and wreck,
whose stature bent and crease.
With unkempt hair and whitish beard,
he looked as pale deceased.
Yet he was very living proof,
from the corner of this land,
with pointed hat and little black cat,
was tourists charms command.
He was for grockles pleasure,
A sight to clap and behold.
For he would dance his sermon,
for threepence we be told.
He also sang a lullaby that worded earful tune,
but if you walked and ignored it,
his helpers in the gloom,
would fleece your trouser pockets,
and bash you over the head.
Then phone your mates via cell,
and say that you were dead.
His house of straw and wooden piles,
was lurking in big hole.
Yet soon his luck would empty day,
as from that London town,
came Scarlot Ways and her assistant,
Mr Hopeless and his owl.
They set to work immediately and began to scam a plan.
If they could capture him alive,
then they would be so wise,
and claim all the glory and maybe a little prize.
Yet they had not reckoned for the man\'s infernal trick,
turned into a mutt he could and smite you very quick.
Yet Scarlot Ways was clever lass with rope and string and paper.
As Dr hopeless unleashed his owl who hooted a winning caper.
The meanest bog is no more as builders came to work.
Two thousand houses were built to last,
and all the land did perk.
Yet late in to a summer breeze,
if you do tune your ears.
You often here a demented tune,
barking woof woof sounding jeers.