Please don’t feed the gulls


It doesn’t matter what your car
Is – Merc, or Rolls or Jaguar –
But in Rye’s streets it will be hit
By quantities of seagull s**t.

So, as the roads are tight and narrow,
Built for horse cart and for barrow,
Why spend a fortune, cut a dash
In something large, and posh, and flash
When, just the same, it will be hit
By quantities of seagull s**t.

You’ll tell me that it doesn’t matter,
All this seagulls’ messy spatter –
For to the carwash on the quay
You can repair (it’s almost free).
But you must do this every day,
Those bloody gulls won’t go away.

 And take good care – YOU might get hit
By carpet-bombing seagull s**t.


Significant Sound: St Mary’s, Rye

At dead of night the bells, the bells,
The quarter bells strike out with glee;
The golden boys make such a sound
That through the citadel resound
Chimes that are out of key.

 So as I lie, awake and hot
Past three o’clock – or maybe not
Three strikes, was it, for quarter two?
Or only one, torture of first degree;
Await the hour bell, in my cot,
And dreaming of my morning cup of tea . . .

 The hour tells soft, I could not count
The timing of the night;
Fathoming just the minutes past
Oh God! How long will this night last
Why do I sleep so light?


(Interrupted by a girl from Tunbridge Wells)
(With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge)



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