I know a guy by the name of Ole McFly
Who lives in a trailer, in a place called Lye.
Down by the river, cross over the stile
That’s where you will find Ole McFly.
Snaring rabbits, that’s his ply
To make rabbit pies, does Ole McFly.
An old black kettle dangles across his fire
Where he sits upon a black tractor tyre.
Flare; his ageing Skewbald Mare
Grazing quietly unaware, not a care.
Tethered to a rickety rocking chair
Gentle old Mare, is faithful Flare.
Out of the dank of the morning fog
A weathered old dog, by the name of Bob.
Settles down, on a smelly old rug
Sniffing at a fat, slimy slug.
Rupert the rooster, sat on a bough
Crowing raucously, crikey what a row.
Ole McFly appears, rubbing sleep from his eyes
Shut that noise, he did but cry.
It’s time for me to take my leave
Per chance he finds me, if I do sneeze.
He will go about this day, making pie
Ole McFly, my eccentric old guy.
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