A poem composed in the midst of a travel hold-up
As dark descends on Ridgeway Hill,
On Ridgeway Hill,
Besunken in this cheerless chill,
Bereft of hide or hut,
With blanket strewn across my lap
I rue the cruel and mean mishap
That lands me in my pony trap
With wheels stuck in a rut.
Afore and aft more carts are stuck,
Aye, more are stuck,
With wheels bogged down in mire and muck
While I, midst hold up, rage!
Will hope of Budmouth’s bypass wane
Perchance a hundred years or twain
Till those, unborn, its comforts gain
In yon Olympic age?
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