Good King Wenceslas looked  up
At his nephew, Arthur.
Artie's such a strange young pup,
And brains he's only half o'.

Said Artie: "Who's that yonder serf
In hobnailed boots and gaiters?
He's foring in the cold cold earth
A-digging up pertaters."

Wenceslas walked 'cross the mat,
And gazed at Art, the thicky;
I'll have some fun with this foul brat,
It's fun to take the mickey.

"Go Arthur, mount your trusty nag,
Ride out, and ask his name, boy.
And as a gift take him a bag
Of toffees and a Game Boy."

So off he goes in morning's light,
Upon the king's best filly;
And trudges home on foot that night,
A-looking rather silly.

Roars Wency: "Where's my goddam horse?
Have you done gone mislaid it?"
"There's no need, uncle,, to be coarse,
I ventured for to trade it.

"Those toffees put him in a whirl,
But not that thing from Sony.
He'd rather have a real game girl,
To help him spend his money.
"He said that spavined mare was dud,
But toffees gave him pleasure
So for the nag he gave this spud,
Of power beyond measure."

The eyes in that king edward
Surely had an evil glow,
But Wency took it bedward,
From the upper floor to throw...

...That vegetable foul, that Art,
In bargaining so crass
Had won; from hand it did depart,
To land inunmown grass.

Now readers with an ounce of nous
Will guess, at sun's arising,
A strange green light had filled the house,
For blotting the horizon...

...There grew a monstrous tater sprout,
Which reason lacked, and rhyme; it
Filled the land all round about,
And Arthur says "I'll climb it."




Says Wency: "Good riddance, knave!
No more my doorway darken."
But Art's climbed skywards, gives a wave,
And to these words don't harken.

This tale is going on a bit,
I think i need a break.
I need a teacup in my mitt,
And p'raps a piece of cake.

The cupboard's bare, alas, alack,
But now the tea's a-brewing
I'll give my Ermintrude the sack,
She don't know what she's doing.

Artie's up there in the skies,
Finds that he's vertigious,
Falls down, breaks his neck, and dies,
Among a crowd, litigious.

They all complain of loss of light,
That king-size spud's the cause,
But Wency cares not of their plight,
He drives them hence by force.

He's enraged about his mare,
He'll start a thorough hunt,
To find that ragged crook who'd dare
To pull that cruel stunt.

"Now fetch my next best horse here, Knave.
Fetch my 12-bore shotgun.
"i must hunt out that fellow's cave
Give that ass a hot one."

He hunted low, he hunted high, 
He searched the whole world round,
In vainful quest for horse and guy,
But neither e'er were found.

He offered gold to those who'd claim
To know that horse supreme,
But no, his search was all in vain,
They picked his pockets clean.

This tale took place in ages dark,
When humans were more bruteful,
But newbury and Lingfield Park
Produce quests no more fruitful.

But poor old Wency, now on bike,
With servant on the pillion.
Has opened up a Spud-U-Like,
And made himself a million.

So if you ponder long enough
The moral  you'll deduce
Is: spuds alone thrive on that stuff
That horses do produce.