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I do not know who wrote this: it was always pinned up on the wall where I used to work.
Fenland Love Poem
It was one of those days in early Somersham;
I was Stanground in the turnip field
Waiting for my Wisbech St Mary.
The evening mist made the flat Fen fields look Earith;
There was a chill in the air and my teeth were Chatteris.
She was late.
"Farcet," 1 muttered under my breath.
Then from the distance Eye saw a car approaching. .
Manea this was her.
The car stopped and she got Outwell
"About time too!" 1 thought.
She walked over and stood beside me;
Next to me she seemed so Littleport. "I'm sorry I'm late."
"Never mind," I said, "who brought you here?"
"Oh, the Parsons Drove me here.
I'm glad you're here," she whispered,
You’re my kind of Guyhirn."
Before 1 knew it we were lying in the Thorney thistles
At the edge of the field.
She hesitated.
Look - I'll be Bluntisham with you;
Please don't think I'm an Eastrea lay," she warned me,
I don’t do this with all the Warboys;
But 1 know that you like to Soham wild oats.
She snuggled closer to me and felt me,
my goodness - you're a big boy - a real Ramsey!"
I know I replied with a smirk
At Holme the girls call me Ramsey Forty Foot'"
Blimey," she said as she Abbots Ripton my clothes off.
Our bodies heaved together near the drainage channel.
Upwell - Outwell - Upwell - Outwell
And as we reached the Emneth of our love making
She gripped me and shouted, Turves! Turves! Turves!"
I said, "I love it when vou talk dirty".
We lay back and 1 told her that
That was the best Whaplode 1 had ever Haddenham
. We :got up and put on our Coates
.And walked back down the road; her hand Holbeach mine.
we went to the local pub.
The landlord brought us our drinks,
“ A pint of Methwold for you, sir,
And a Terrington St Clement for the lady."
We were Sutton in the corner, both feeling a bit Downham Market.
I Pondersbridged what she felt about me.
She got up to leave.
"Will you still love me to Murrow, my Dereham?" 1 asked. She turned and smiled.
“Whittlesey” she said “Whittlesey.”
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