Old Codger

Get thee hence! Get thee hence!

Away the riffraff from my fence

Ye've rattled window and rattled doors

Till there's no peace upon the moors

The hallowed folk have fled their graves

To rid themselves these noisome knaves

The tyrants peal rings through my head

Till any room for thought is dead

I'd rid myself this fearsome bane

If I had not a limp and cane

Yet wield do I that wood in vain

For the blighters to abstain

Their laughter loud begins to boil

Not troubled they at all my toil

Surrender I with naught a choice

For it seems I've lost my voice

I must placate them one and all

Returning to them their playball