The vale of Pewsey...
Is rather juicy...
As the Ridgeway path...
Loves a good Bath...
While drinking...
A keg of best ale...
Bare-arsed in the park...
The White Horse Trail...
Has her lustful ways down Malmesbury way.
Cirencester is just a mighty jester...
From roman Chester.
On the straight and narrow drag-strip...
Of Ermin street do you flow...
Chariots of fire...
Burning your desire...
Going forty-five miles per hour...
Wind in your golden wavy hair...
Making this horse-drawn wooden chair...
Go like a possessed Hare.
Chitterne...
Loves to turn in a metal Hurn...
As Keavil...
Is pretty hip for flying...
In a spitfire dip.
Wellow...
Is pretty Mellow...
With all your crazy driving fellows.
Chundering like thunder...
With your friends from down-under...
Will surely to put you in the dock...
Bare-arsed in a frock.
Maiden Bradley was of this Priory.
Bathing in milk and honey...
Singing and dancing in the horses trough.
Comes these soothing words to make you hiccup...
"Drink travelers...
Drink of Bradley's purest Rill.
Which is strange to say.
Runs quite a mile uphill.
Then to your panting steeds...
Let all attend...
An honest horse is surely mans best friend"
The Merchant of Venice...
Is such a menace.
As Shylock got his pound of flesh.
Just in jest...
While sitting in a string vest...
From Budapest.
