The Shed

A psalm for sackcloth Tuesday, being the first Tuesday after the
martyrdom of St Jute the threadbare, patron saint of past tenses.

by Tom Chandler

Our SHED which art in YorkSHED,
Not FinniSHED, nor SpaniSHED,
Nor Scotty nor Danny DaniSHED,
But EngliSHED be thy name.

Really rare evenings reliSHED,
Our plain lives embelliSHED,
All prejudice demoliSHED,
Snug smugness aboliSHED.

Our empty tanks repleniSHED,
In this unique not just anySHED.
Not elite nor yet for the many SHED
Sort of ‘Anyone for tennisSHED’.

Our Elvis wigs we’ve brandiSHED
In this sometimes randy SHED,
This very fine and dandy SHED,
With compliments blandiSHED.

Ravi Shankars raviSHED,
Country stars vanquiSHED,
And jazzers all so poliSHED
Kept us hip not squariSHED.

By pedantry undonniSHED,
All bigotry admoniSHED,
A seriously funnySHED:
Arts Council’s most astoniSHED.

Your light undiminiSHED
Never be finiSHED
May the soul of this verySHED
Always be cheriSHED

As we have flouriSHED
Let us not be impoveriSHED
Nor Yorkshire undernouriSHED,
God save our SHED!

© Tom Chandler