No More Camping Poem by Tom Billsborough

One day,
My canvas tent,
It blew away.
I do not know to what ex-tent.
It briefly flapped like Hamlet's ghost,
Or mizzen sail,
Or some great sea-bird on the gale.
Camping was a sudden non-event.
A nearby stream now broke its bank
And I was stuck
And dank in clinging mud
Like some Jemima puddle duck.
That's why I left those poles apart,
And sodden sleeping bag.
I lit a fag
And then resolved to seek a life of leisure.
A great four-poster was my motto.
A warm bed leasuring my grotto,
And warmer ladies, to be sure.
Come on you Lizzies and you Sadies,
There's room enough for four.
No camping on a treacherous slope.
A horizontal dream is mine. And hope!