There’s no such thing as a lonely cloud

Wandering round here

They’ve all got friends and relatives

Bringing up the rear

And as for hosts of Daffodils

They’ve all been picked by tourists

Who spent too much on waterproofs

To afford a bloody florists

There used to be so many

That Billy wrote a poem

About the thousands he could see

When he used to roam

There’s plenty though, in the yards

Of rich aristocrats

But it won’t be long ‘til they’re cut down