Written for my employers. They sometimes pay me in whisky for humorous, rhymy call centre-themed poems. I have a T-shirt proclaiming me the call centre poet.
In the lounge, in Woodyard House, in Hartington, in Derbyshire, the hearth fire snapped and my friend, Alex Obelensky, son of runaway Russian nobles, asked me, "You wanna come and collect sheep-turds?"