OK, me too... Gyppo's recent entry on another thread reminded me of a piece I penned for a party years - hell no, decades - ago. To the tune of "The Whistling Gypsy Rover":
The gypsy rover came over the hill,
down to the farmyard so handy -
a dark-eyed man with a forty-foot van
and a Range Rover towing it fine and
dandy.
The farmer's daughter, she came out
filled with curiosity.
"Oh gypsy," she cried, "it's a terrible night,
and farming folk's known for our
generosity.
"Will you step inside for a bit of a bite?
Will you take a swig of my home-brew?
I've brothers and a pa, but they're down at the bar
and I haven't seen a soul all night
but you."
The gypsy stepped down from his fine big car,
into the kitchen he followed her.
They drank and they ate, and then just for a bet
they tried out the springs on her father's
sofa.
While thus engaged with the farmer's maid,
deaf to all but her sighing,
the gypsy didn't hear her pa re-appear,
or see him at the kitchen window,
spying.
Five big sons had the farmer raised,
though none as big as his daughter.
They pushed down the road the van that it towed
and the car that was the pride of the man that
bought her.
The sons climbed in and the farmer drove.
He drove off into the darkness
the forty-foot van worth thirty-five grand
and the car whose value he could hardly
guess.
Morning broke and the gypsy woke.
His back was ricked and his head spun,
and the siren of the night looked a terrible fright,
so the gypsy gathered his socks up
to run.
He tip-toed over the kitchen floor,
thinking himself such a hard case!
He opened the door, and was struck to the floor
by the horrible sight that awaited
his gaze.
The farmer had taken his car and his van,
but had taken care to replace them:
an old Morris truck, and a spreader full of muck,
and a note saying, "Have her and
welcome!"
