Windward Warps mah Wensleydale

He thrusts his stares against their boasts
And still insists he loves the coast.
This post-immortal derby-roast-
How fat, How fair, how Crisp as Toast-

He found a crabhole beckoning close,
And thrust inside to poke its host-
A sandy bit of wild-sown oats-
How quick, yon prick!
(He is fortunate the crab was not at home.)

And now the deckhands hoot and holler,
As sits he in a tux, by goller,
And whispers faint soft lovely words into the sand.
He's daft, gone Mad, HE AIN'T A MAN!

With daylight ending, night and night,
For months here, in his lover's plight:
He thrusts his stares against their boasts
And still insists he loves the coast.