The Ghost of Wanleighgripp

They say, way down, at the edge of town
Stalks the ghost of Wanleighgripp
And what a sight she is at night
As she haunts old Wanleigh tip

Now the story goes that once, 'pon Ho
In the days of Quinckly Yore
There lived, alas, a merry lass
By the name of Hellebore

Now Helle if 'twere to be quite frank
She was a girl bit plain
Her tutors took agin her look
The boys they did much same

But Helle were a strong-willed girl
And in her mind a plan unfurled
To prove her scingee masters wrong
And kick their arses to FinglyBong

She took a quaver, the note of which
would catch the favour and get her hitched
To some passing handsome lonely prince,
hunky, but as thick as mince

"Cripes, Oh no! Horror!" She cried
When this princey chap arrived.
"A gangly glimp - this is no use!
He wears... green socks..."
His brain weren't loose.

"Oh, what a swipe, he's not my type,"
Said she as her eyes took their fill.
"The guys were right - I must be a sight,
That my Beau is the belle of pigswill!"

So, with a sigh, she drew her end nigh
With a clank and a flick of the Ping.
And now her ghost doth remember most
Her, not so near, princely fling.

Now the moral of this record states,
Don't give in on peerigidal emanates
Tworell else you'll become as Hellebore
(And for her being was just a chore)
If something's said which really grates:
Ignore, be free, emancipate.