Up and down Lincoln Road,
and through the underpass,
is where I saw Lord Nelson,
with an empty glass,
so, to refill jollity,
squirrel act; I played,
searching for them everywhere,
on roofs and in the shade,
such country lane displayed,
floral fame of Vincent,
soil, water and good choice,
painted scene so decent,
lo’ eyes returned to task,
to find those wooden six,
far too heavy for a thrush,
who call the twigs; their bricks,
then; by house of god,
was my congregation,
fruits off tree, completely free,
the cause of such elation,
hands and pockets told me:
“be calm and do not warp,
your bag’s still bare, get them in there,
those pinecones of Winthorpe!”
Thus, bounty was encased,
and weary feet did roar,
for it was time; to go back home,
upon the green grey floor,
when I got inside,
I thought; such joy; a power,
but then I saw my weathered face,
therefore; I took a shower!