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People of Bucks
River Bankers all,
Or traders,
Hark, yon bunch of bankers,
The summer season is upon us
The regatta has arrived
Hasten down to Marlow
For the crowds are a-gathering
Buckwits all, and merry
Buckwit:
“Come on number five-one-two!”, you cry to a lady rower, as she skulls past in her figure-hugging suit of blue
Do you not realize,
Drunken Buckwit,
That the race is over,
And now she is returning to the start
Like a racehorse ambling along after a race
From whose rippling muscles rise whisps of steam?
Or like an athlete who has finished the dash
And now lopes lithely around the track
Allowing his muscles time to warm down?
Buckwit
You have worn your tie short and fat this year
I commend you for your shiny shirt
And your messed up hair is certainly the fashion
But I would rather not speak of the six hours it took you to perfect your appearance this morning ready to go on show at the Marlow regatta
My time would be better spent were I to use these words in praise of the Buckwettes
Flitting through the throng in their light summer dresses
Seeing one, it is as if she has risen naked from the dark waters of the Thames, her tanned limbs dripping with river water, whereupon a flock of brightly colored butterflies
With wings of gentle silk
Have alighted upon her naked body:
Such is the ephemeral summery nature of her dress
Seeing another
With hair of solar gold
It is as if a naked angel of the Sun
Emerging from the velvety heart of a flower
Her body still sticky with the nectar of the Sun
Has proceeded to roll in a bed of summer petals
Which have adhered to her
And now flutter gently in the breeze
Perfuming the air
With their heavenly scent
Such is the delightful lightness of the frocks sported by this years’ Buckwettes at the regatta
Buckwits,
Make way,
Leave the enclosure
For one who would stride boldly through the middle
One who has worn his tie long
For I – Cuppalot of the generous custom – have arrived upon the scene
Make way for a real man
A poet
One who sings an ode
To the beautiful Buckwettes
Who would be honored
To allow him into their VIP enclosure
To one who would maneuver the prow of his craft
Through the churning waters
Rowing onward
Rhythmically
Buckwette
Though you are dressed in garments of the most elegant nature
You have stepped out of your high heels
And now pad with bare feet like a primitive across the ground
Amongst discarded plastic cups
I like that
Buckwette
Though your calves are trim
Though your thighs shapely but yielding
Though your smile is like the chorus of a thousand sparrows at sunrise
Despite all these things
I cannot deny
That your friend
Is nice too.
A toast:
To summer time!
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