Old Codger

Get thee hence! Get thee hence! Away the riffraff from my fence Ye've rattled window and rattled doors Till there's no peace upon the moors The hallowed folk have left their graves To rid themselves these noisome knaves The tyrants peal rings through my head Till any room for thought is dead I'd rid myself this fearsome bane If I had not a limp and cane Yet wield do I that wood in vain For the blighters to abstain Their laughter loud begins to boil Not troubled they at all my toil Surrender I with naught a choice For it seems I've lost my voice I must placate them one and all Returning to them their playball