The villages of Sprott and Grotna Green,
Since time's first dawning rivalries have seen.
Each town its neighbour trying to outdo,
In what it made or won or built or grew.
So, yesterday, the county produce show,
A must for such competitors to go:
Ken Grunge of Sprott a mighty marrow's grown,
But Grotna men will claim it's not his own.
And Grotna's Agnes Blatt's sunflower bloom,
Which really dominates the massive room,
Is treated by Sprott matrons with derision,
And cast aspersions on the prize decision.
Each hamlet boasts a churchwith towering spire,
And argument's long raged of which is higher,
And round this bone contentious now revolves
My tale, and how it finally resolves.
To Sprott one day come two young city chaps,
With filofax, theodolite, and maps,
They've come along to survey this terrain,
And stay at Sprott's one inn, The Speckled Dane.
Succumbing to the charms of barmaid Jill,
A 3-in-bed romp gives them all a thrill,
And once all sated, in the early hours,
The subject's broached of churches and their towers.
They set off in the morn to measure hills
And valleys, (none enchanting, though, as Jill's,)
Then gauge the said ecclesiastic uppers,
Before returning Sprottwards for their suppers.
A crowd, excited, straight way gather round,
And once the pair a quenching pint have downed,
Announce unto the gathering what's transpired:
And state that Grotna's church stands one foot higher.
Such protests then are voiced by men of Sprott,
With shouts and growls and tempers growing hot,
Our fine surveyors feel increasing terror,
And blurt: "Of course, there is a chance of error.
"Next month we will return with more precision
Equipment, that will settle the decision."
Then get into their car and drive away,
With promise to return 4 weeks that day.
* * *
And sure enough, that's what the pair have done,
But this time filly Jilly grants no fun,
No more this time the tavern's finest rooms,
But those with dismal views of graveyard tombs.
"At least," says one, "This kills stone dead the patter,
That women reckon size don't really matter."
Next morning they set off to do their work,
And estimate precisely Grotna's kirk,
And back to Sprott, the task there to repeat,
But what a sight and smell their senses meet.
Around the hallowed walls where ivy's clung
For centuries, it's piled high with dung!
They hastily perform their calculation,
Then home to meet the tavern's congregation.
"Your spire, compared with Grotna Green's St Peter's,"
They state, "Is taller by three centimetres."
At once the hostile crowd is mollified,
And with free beer our heroes jollified.
So is that what the figures really show?
Did fertiliser make that tower grow?
Or were, through fear, the altitude claims false,
Or for one further horizontal waltz?
No-one with modern laser-driven gear
Has ventured to that region damp and drear.,
So was the mesure right? No-one can say.
But that is what the maps all state today,
(Based on English folk tale.)
Thursday, August 05, 2004