Down the damp dank hills of Dover
I took a plunge, went tumbling over,
Because of horse dung on the stairs
I chose to disregard awares
And try my hand at mud-slope-skiing
Just to find myself fast-tumbling
Down the hills of Dover.
Silence borne from shocking clue
That rain has made the ground like poo
As feet beneath me skitter-skat
As I lurch forward, plop backflat,
And slide ten meters, stand upright,
Then fall back down continued flight
‘Cross shit-stained Dover.
Damn these hills! I’ve yet seen less
Than I reduced to muddy mess –
Dirt-streaks, grass, rabbit pellets,
All across my coat’s suede velvet –
Blue jeans brown-stained beyond repair
On knees and thighs and derrière.
And the sight of White Cliffs
Will fade from my mind
When I recall those foul trips
That soiled my poor behind.
Morning's Early Dark 