Old Judd Trump came tumbling from the River Trent, His legs are ancient and his aching back is bent. Fresh down from West Stockwith on a Monday morning, As a grey sullen October day was dawning. Studying the deep dark waters of old Cuckoo Dyke. Remembering horses on the towpath and the like. He's more than half way to dear old East Retford town, Once there he will sink a few pots of pale ale down. At Worksop he calls for fish and chips and mushy peas to eat. There lots of family and workmates there to greet. He stopping to remember the old Cuckoo Boats slide by. The pair of magestic mute swans makes him sigh. On to Kiverton Bridge and turn for home again. Hopefully he will be there before it pours with rain.
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