The atmosphere was electric in that little village church.
You could almost touch and taste, stroke and feel the air.
People standing in the aisles even sitting on friend's knees.
It would have taken a large abbey to seat every person there
They'd arrived in their hundreds, in vehicles of every class,
Busses, lorries, dog carts, four tandems, loads of racing bykes,
Chauffeured Rollers, limousines, taxis, a little hot air balloon,
Transport made to suit every possible type of taste and like.
The police had had no idea of what was to take place
Their helicopter had hovered relaying the bad news
Of the utter spreading chaos resulting in
For Britain, huge record traffic queues.
The bearers silently entered
Shouldering their weight,
Lots drawn for the honour
That select band of eight.
The vicar gave a shudder as the coffin entered in that place
A sobbing sort of moan ran through those assembled there
Packed serried ranks of mourners all dressed in deepest black
Tens and hordes of women, massed elegant blue rinsed hair.
There was emotion in the church yard
Full of those arrived much too late
Standing still in sobbing ranks back
Down to and out of the iron gates.
The village tea Shoppe made fat profits
Put extra tables in the yard at the rear
Proposed a memorial service
Be held every single year;
But deep down deep in many a lady's heart there lurked
A disbelief, a refusal to accept it really was the final end
Was that coffin empty, or could it, did it really really hold
That lothario of the tea rooms, Frend, his name, James Frend???
