From the land of bestrode came Ambrose the toad,
With boring tales of a bureaucratic charade.
Why would this old fart, with always the same start,
Repeat old stories about the British Brigade?
He’d tell you everything he could,
Though you’d feel dismayed,
From the arsenal to the ironwood
Gates and deep hill palisades.
O’ how great the thought of death
At the sound of a cannonade,
That there’s no truth in shibboleth
From this army so decayed.
With long pauses and a lack of respect
He continued this masquerade:
At this point in the story he did expect
A Knight’s song and a parade.
With stories of old and endless assails
Of a political militant blockade,
Ambrose the toad told his yawing tales
Of a forgotten British Brigade.