by Monty Wells The economic problems Of our little island's great And the European Union Hasn't been much help of late So it's with the greatest pleasure This tale I tell to you Of British drive and 'know-how' Getting foreign orders through There's a little farm in Hertfordshire In fact down Hitchin way And they grow herbs, all sorts of stuff They labour night and day Amalgamated Sage & Thyme Was their trade name in the past But modern times use modern words It's now condensed to AST The scene now shifts to Hamburg To the office of a man Who makes big ,fat pink sausages As only Germans can He's chairing a board meeting With his cronies all around "Mein friends" he cried "A new taste In sausage must be found" A little British salesman Shyly coughed and said "Why not put AST herbs in And cut down on the bread?" Now the Chairman who remembered That 'bust up' long ago And didn't like the British much Was about to holler "No!" But the head chef of the factory With a long and quivering snout (And quite a nose for business too) Said "Get your samples out!" He said to Herr Director "Now hold on for a bit" Sniffed parsley, basil, sage and thyme Then yelled "Mien Gott That' it! This thyme from Hitcin surely Will make our sausage number one Herr Director take my tip And order fifty ton The chairman was hard headed Not easy to impress He hummed and hawed a little bit Then changed his vote to "Yes" The boss down there in Hertfordshire Said "Well that's Turned out fine When he read the salesman's e-mail "AST Hitchin Thyme saves 'Nein"
The end