The village of Lower come Upham on Slyme
Has hardly been touched by the finger of time
Developers curse them and wish them in hell
But the Parish Councillors, they guard it well.
The cottages fronting the village green
Have a simply spectacular sideways lean
Delighted photographers focus and zoom
On the tenants abseiling from room to room.
The church of St Jude and St Mavis Without
Is seldom in service (the vicar has gout)
The tower is tremendous, so charming the crypt
One is hardly aware the foundations have slipped.
One should visit the Infant School, covered in mould
It’s a real architectural gem, so we’re told
The walls and the floor such a mellow old stone
Don’t linger too long, you’ll be chilled to the bone.
The local Arts Centre, a forum for bores
Amateur acting and zero encores
Has Lottery funding, and décor so lush
The atrium fountains don’t tinkle, they gush.
The Twinning Committee debated last week,
Villages German, Italian, and Greek
To make the right choice, to each beautiful land
Fact-finding missions were naturally planned.
In the warm summer months, for a nominal fee
One can sample the village’s long history
A derelict ducking-stool, two rusty ploughs
A jumble of horns, from a few ancient cows.
The Library, dignified, ivy-clad stone,
Inside, dusty books have been cut to the bone
DVDs and CDs and PCs fill the room
Where the clicking of mice spells out literature’s doom.
The Tourist Adviser directs one with pride
To the stake in the square where Dissenters have died.
“Just part of our history” she says with a smile,
“We hold re-enactments here once in a while“.
We go from the square where the stones are still warm
To a tour of a subsidised, picturesque farm
Decrepit the barns, but the tearoom so grand
Where the farmer gives change with a manicured hand.
The cave where St Sisofras slaughtered his mule
Is the site, by repute, of a health-giving pool
Though pilgrims flock daily, the fact is, alas,
The cure score is nil for this holy old ass.
The remains of the Fortress, the guidebook explains
Have been in that state since the Roman campaigns
Seems churlish to quibble or even to sneer
But the walls are much higher than this time last year.

The “Old Goose and Gryphon” your eye’s sure to catch
With its black and white front and profusion of thatch
For your own health and safety, eschew the real ale
And the Upham Slyme pasties, which turn strong men pale.
The lady who runs the Post Office and Store
Took over the business just after The War
A portrait of Kitchener looks on in state
And she’s never heard of a “best-before” date.
The village policeman, a popular man
Is fighting the crime wave as hard as he can
But poachers are wily, the policeman is stout
Quite partial to partridges, rabbit and trout.
The village “amenity’s” long past its best
It’s rude, ancient plumbing a subject for jest
The locals all shun it, advisedly so,
It’s really a place where you don’t want to go.
The Slyme village fete, unlike others elsewhere
Held weekly in summer, not once every year
Après egg and spoon and surfeited with beer
The tourists pay fortunes their fortunes to hear.
The road through the village is covered in signs
Like “Twenty is Plenty“, and bright yellow lines.
The policeman can’t help you, the street-map confounds,
Diversions lead only to “Parking £10“.
Each village with self-respect has to play host
To a colourful “character“, of whom they boast,
In Slyme they have neither a blessing nor curse
For their cynical, amateur maker of verse.