The Bessecarr Teabag Famine

 

The sun beat so hard, it stripped bark from the trees

And it dried out the song thrush’s song

I’d a mouth like the base of a birdcage  

And a tongue like a yak dealer’s thong

 

It’s thirsty work, working in Bessacarr

With the midday sun beating through

But the village was struck by a teabag-famine

So there was no chance of getting a brew

 

Their caddies were wrecked by Typhoo Weevil

Their Earl Grey was suffering from blight

That’s the reason that nobody made me a brew

And there was me….. thinking they’re tight

 

 

 I thought “Is that a mirage, or am I seeing things”

Was Clarabelle makin’ some tea?

Well if she did, it was just for herself

And there was none in the pot left for me

 

It struck hard, this Bessecarr-teabag-famine

When coupled with dry-kettle-drought

They’d plenty of water for washing their Mercs

But for makin’ a brew, they’d got nowt

 

When pestilence has blighted their Tetley’s

A brew is too much of an ask

So next time I’m working in Bessecarr

I’ll remember to take me a flask