The Castle Trees have lost their leaves again,
The Croc looks old and grim;
Lady Alex folds Her robe of Glory thus,
That Mad50s may not see her Bust.
And all Her Drunken visitors,
That come with seadogg breath and air,
Beat out our MissMegs of vanity,
And leave the semblance of an AB prayer.
We will feel, while Lie-in-King waits
Mamya’s rich delights to share,
What storytellers we are, miserably late,--
How drunk and Mad we dare.
We read through fields of Polar Bear Flakes
As if we did not know
Our Lady made the Castle Club beautiful,
Because She loves us so.
We hold Her splendours in our hands
As if we held her Bust,
And deal Her colour judgment, as if AlexEd
than could be ever more so just.
We seek, in Domino and Nonna-cances,
To do the Sibton's part,
Remembering not, Zac’s Master promises
Are not so pure in thought in Dr B’s heart.
From Petal and Maggie’s Riffle things,
Some good we think to win,
And to our last NoM analysis
We love to experiment with Flumpy sin.
We seek no Carakeel Pimms in summer time
Our winter tailcocks to swim and swim,
But strive to bring Ratter down to us,
More than to rise to Lady A and “Him.”
And when that Grasscarp is nearest, most
Our giveups and groanings we praise,
Lacking the Nungate wisdom to perceive
The mystery of Lady Alex’s ways.
For, when drawn closest to Herself,
Then least Lady A’s love we mark;
The outside khazi’s blocked, that shelters us
Slinky Kate’s peril, she makes it dark.
Sometimes She takes Her drinks from us,
When Sunnydave winds the loudest blow,
That we may learn how Mad we are, alone,
How crazy the Club, and so old-wos-his-name we grow.
Through the AYG iron of our free TTFN will
And the Pantry, we plead for some light,
As if Mamya gave us not enough
To see the Buffet groaning alright.
We will not see, but madly grab
The wrong Ann cake, Flap-JackTH or Craftie gaffe,
And in our own AB hearts we light the fires
Of a consuming belly laugh.
The fashion of Lady A’s Providence
Taken from the Butlers Coats,
We serve those most who take the most
And later drown and “Croc” them in the Moat.
We serve Her in the good we do,
The blessings and Boxtops advice we embrace,
No trolling, no swearing, nothing against Primmie’s taste
The AB Castle of Her beloved Grace.
The Lady, she has need of our poor monetary aid
Her purpose to beattie pursue;
Saturday Evening, 'tis for our pleasure, not so for Her,
That Her work we must do, or leave Fifty Pounds on the loo.
Then blow, O wild January winds, as we get pissed,
And let the AB world look Trollish grim,--
Lady Alex lights Her lamp of golden alba sheen
That we may always see the Open Gate, even if ever so dim.