East
Cambridge’s bounded on the west by foul and marshy ground,
Where
never failing springs of filth lend to the sweetness round;
While
on the north the piggery protects the borders well
From
any skulking enemy by its death-dealing smell.
The
east is bounded by the Charles that once was pure and clear,
Of
which the dear ol’ poet sang in some long bygone year;
But
now the native’s (scents) of right is daily growing keen
And
handkerchiefs need come in play when e’er they cross the sheen.
The
south is bounded by a ditch – some call it a canawl,
But
I should say ‘twas an outlet of nastiness an’ gall.
Adjoining
lies a stretch of ground I’ll give it in a lump:
A
rotten mass of deathly stench politely called “the dump”.
Dog
Island boasts of one small lake whose silvery wavelet reach
And
lick the golden sands that shine upon the “net shop beach”.
The
principal industry is the breeding of small cur
Which
roam at large the livelong day and bite without demur.
The
inhabitants are noted for the lands they represent,
And
the mixture on Dog Island is a thing of wonderment.
But
the population’s healthy and is waxing strong each day;
Caused
by the balmy zephyrs that are wafted every way.
March
2, ‘91
Note – This poem was crossed
out in the original, hand-written collection
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