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Bobby, normally a perfectly capable and proficient worker.
On the ball, knows the ropes, just as good as some of the old timers.
Adept in all things involved with the management and upkeep of equine beasts.
Dependable and reliable in so many ways, an absolute legend of the game.

Known to none but himself was a recent affliction of the vestibular system.
A newly developed infirmity of the labyrinth of the inner ear.
Towards the end, but not at the end, of an otherwise regular day of grafting as he does,
Bobby hits the deck like a sack of spuds, and part of his skull comes away.
Like the lid off a jar.

So, he has a sleep, a long sleep, as you would, as he did.
And wakes to the sound of immense displeasure from the other Bob; the Baron.
One job not done, but it was an important one, big man had a lot on the day.
Not good, being as he is, a malicious and spiteful sack of blue-blooded well-born nobleman shite.

So, he takes a hold of a cudgel that he likes to call a crop. Vicious.
And so, expounds the virtues of consistency in such a line of work as this.
And your man, well just a boy, he turns away, seeking something like saviour.
And down swings the billy, and down goes wor Bobby, and so are the walls of the stable painted red.

The causal relationship is undeniable.

Cold.
In the bottom of a pond, it’s cold.
Forever moribund and cold.
As above, so below.
Cold as death in a body undressed, but something’s left, yes.

Sometime later, we’re talking months, he’s pulled out, putrid and bloated.
Big Bob is put on trial, bang to rights, you would like to have thought, I’m sure.
But as we know all too well, never shall the shame of the aristocracy be laid bare.
These are the men who rule the world and they do it really very well.

But every now and again comes a comrade who will take one for the team.
And from a limbo beyond the veil, comes the cauld lad himself, naked as the day he was born.
And with reverence and love, blue blood is made to flow and pool.
Because even the dead know there’s nowt worse that a landlord.

Fucking scum.

The causal relationship is undeniable.

Cold.
In the bottom of a pond, it’s cold.
Forever moribund and cold.
As above, so below.
Cold as death in a body undressed, but something’s left, yes.

Wae is me, wae is me!
The acorn’s not yet fallen from the tree,
That’s to grow the wood,
That’s to make the cradle,
That’s to rock the bairn,
That’s to grow to the man,
That’s to lay me!

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