Witherdon Poem by Ross Maclennan

If Lear had hated Limericks and Betjeman a laugh,
If Wilde had leaned the other way towards a better half,
If Odgen ditched the doggerel and Milligan was sane,
If Poe had been a happy man and Plath had shrunk from pain,
If Blyton had been boring and if Superman for real,
If Baggins had not ventured out and Gollum learned to feel,
If Mozart's just too lively and if Rotten plays too loud, or
If Candide had been worldly-wise and Quixote not proud,
If DaVinci had not done it all and Warhol done the rest,
If Nico's Prince had been the worst and Portia's been the best,
If Pinky's ways had made you laugh and Carton's fail to weep,
If Daumier can leave you cold and Homer naught to keep,
If Noble Rot means not a jot and Port lies on the Bay,
If Venison means blood sports and the Landed have to pay,
Then Witherdon at New Years Eve is not the place to be,
But I, I find I'm sated, for at Witherdon I'm Me.