Only six weeks, then
Good Friday's here,
When the boys make tents
And talk no sense
Over a beer
And get it up again.
Hands on poles,
All in a row,
Await the order 'Lift'.
'But mine's adrift!'
'It's on my toe'.
'Just fit them in the holes'.
Commands are issued
Loud and clear
'It's looking good'.
'We knew we could'.
'Have no fear'
All well and truly screwed.
Pegs are banged in
Ground quite soft,
Mallet swinging,
Sarah singing,
Arms aloft,
Demanding 'Retha Franklin
Like 'I say a little prayer'
Or 'Something-E-C-T'
For her greatest hits
And whatever else fits
On a USB
Or Graeme's iPod player.
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