From York, I booked a train seat, then arrived At Leighton Buzzard, where my good friends came. We had dinner with whisky; I survived. Their tidy house, **** and span, looked the same. In Stratford, we found Shakespeare still alive, And Anne Hathawayβs Cottage earned its fame. We reminisced: In the Lake District thrived. At Wastwater, the wild we could not tame. In Grasmere, bountiful meals were prescribed. Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote poems to shame Those who keep their meager talent alive. Back to reality in Wing we came, Renewed bonds from which our friendship derived. That they ended, only death was to blame.