MADAM, 

I enclose a letter in verse.

What has become of that cratered old way,

Of pot-holes and patch-ups that shook us each day?

Where are its clunkers, drains sunk in a pit,

That made driving from Buckholt a test of true grit?

Why is my suspension not hitting its buffers,

Could the council have listened … those cloth-eared old duffers?

Oh joy to the hills, oh joy to the skies,

Soaring like eagles, to Monmouth we fly,

Over tarmac as smooth as a billiard table,

Caressed into town by this temptress in sable.

I’m springy and zippy, I’m dandy and gay,

The road is restored! Hip, hip, hip-hooray!

Des Morris

(Buckholt)