National poetry day was last week and I was inspired to have a go. Sorry about that, but you will be pleased to learn that this will be my last attempt to be a published poet.
To the Inlands at Alton, to sail in a fleet
Inbreds from Wessex, from Norfolk webbed feet
Old Mikey Bees with his shoulder all knackered
And plenty of others with bodies all battered
Fruit pickers from Lincoln, likely lads from the East
A handful from Hampshire and last but not least
Two more, once again, from the country up North
Heading South to the sun for all they were worth.
But enough of such mirth and of stereotyping
What of the racing, the on-water fighting?
The keen ones came Friday for a night on the ale
You could tell who they were by their faces so pale
Messrs Clarke, Jones and Hopson had heads all an-aching
With Clarke going home instead of going racing
The wind was just right and never too hairy
The reaches were fun and the runs not too scary
And at the end of the day when all races were run
The top three were split by only point one.
So ahead of the Sunday all became clear
The title would go to who laid off of the beer.
Sunday morning arrived with scarce any wind
Mr Bolland was hoping the racing was binned
You might think me biased, I have an agenda
But my lead at the top was exceedingly slender
Say what you like, for that wind I’m too fat
You shouldn’t be made to go out in THAT!
But out we went anyway all in our yachts
And the wind was just rubbish, never more than eight knots
But at the end of the day it was probably right
That the overall winner was a chap called Sam Knight.