I lay beneath a mackerel sky And viewed old Whitbys' ships, Then headed to the Magpie To get some fish and chips. The queue stretched like a conger eel It drove me up the pole, Saw Herga Kitty tucking in To a lovely lemon sole. The Tootler, he remained impressed As regards their standards, While Frug thought seven fifty Put them on a par with bandits. "Seven fifty's pretty good," Chirped in Liz the Squeak, "A plaice I know in Padstow Charged me more than that last week." "Hurry, in the name of cod," A voice cried out in pain, "Ma bladder's fit fer burstin' And it will nae take the strain." The queue it grew and nowt got through This motley crew of chancers, Shanty singing folkies And teams of morris dancers. Then plod came by and cast his eye Upon the vast obstruction, "I'll have to book you all," he said, For that is my instruction." "Tell us sarg, what's the charge?" Up spoke a pheasant plucker, "You're charged with loitering with intent To purchase a fish supper."
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