Whitegate had a wonderland,
Which has long since disappeared.
I played in it years ago,
Before I grew a beard.
It's inhabitants were frontiersmen,
Of a young and brave persuasion,
Who repelled every Saturday,
A determined Korean invasion.
They fought with bow and arrow,
And wielded fearsome spears,
Which wrought havoc on Hill-Roaders,
And sent them home in tears.
This wonderland "The Bog",
Was every young boys dream:
Thick undergrowth and bullrushes,
And stickleback filled stream.
Where on peaceful days in Summer,
I discarded all my clothes;
Donned loin-cloth and head-dress,
And joined the Navajos.
I caught sticklebacks; stalked blackbirds;
Built wigwams with tree-bark,
'Till I'd hear the call from Mother:
"Come home it's getting dark!"
With loin-cloth and head-dress hidden;
I'd jump into the stream.
I'd wash off muck and war-paint,
and come out sparkling clean.
Those cursed clothes I'd don once more,
And head for home: yi-ho!
Mother never once suspected,
That I was a Navajo!
Then when nightime came, I'd lie awake,
And listen to the frog,
'Till the night-jars song, lulled me to sleep,
In my home beside the bog.