AS Standard reporter Jack Pitts has decided he has had enough of Cirencester and is shipping out to Wales, I wrote him a poem.

Wales
When skies are grey and mists descend
Across the mountains round Bridgend
When gales ‘cross Cader Idris blow
And gushing mountain torrents flow.

Rain squalls scud ‘cross Cardiff Bay
The Bristol Channel cold and grey
And towering Severn Bridges stand
Astride the road to sweet England

The steelworks standing rusting cold
The pits no longer dig black gold
Dole queues winding down the street
In wet and windy Pontypridd.

You’ll have to learn to speak in Welsh
They talk of Rugby, little else.
They sing out loud and out of tune
You’ll pine for England really soon

As huddled round a pubs warm fire
And deafened by a male voice choir
You contemplate your sorry fate
You’d be better off in Ciren mate.

ALAN SEPERT
Cirencester