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Here I Rhyme Only Once
There is a street in town
Where porridge is drawn up,
Where loafing is a virtue
And spitting is the sport of kings.
Old London town would be so proud
Of all the knaves and fools
Who frolic all day long
Then sleep amid the ruins.
Edgar was the given name
Of one young fool
Who skipped along the padded street
One whistle to his name.
He loved the maiden Joan of Arc
Whose beauty was untrue.
Both expired the self-same day,
No penny to their names.
And me, I get along somehow
Standing on a rock,
While fishing in a muddy hole,
I never watch the clock.
Copyright ©
Bill Yates
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