by Peter Booker You've all heard of Robin of Sherwood, Who lived in the old days of yore, And of his Merry Men who robbed t'rich of the land And gave proceeds ( less 10% ) to the poor. A swashbucklin' handsome hero was Robin, Well, Hollywood and TV tells is so. Wi' the looks of Errol Flynn or Kevin Costner, Certainly not Quasimodo! He gave grief to Nottingham's Sheriff (Now he looked like Basil Rathbone) Robin stole so much money off him, He had to go t'Nat West for a loan! Well, now it was time for Robin to go, And meet his Maker first hand, And explain all his sins and forgiveness ask, So's to enter God's Promised Land. He lay on his deathbed with his friends gathered round' As he lingered with not long to go, Will Scarlet, Little John, Alan-a-Dale, Friar Tuck And Curly and Larry and Mo! Maid Marion, his love, sat there by his side, The wife who had loved him so true. She sat by his bed and awaited the end, So's she could get in touch with The Pru! Then Robin sat up, with the aid of his friends, And bade them bring his bow made of yew, And an arrow fletched with the feathers of goose, To make it fly straight and true. He nocked tha arrow in his trusty bow, And summoning the last of his might, He pulled back on the string, until it did sing As he pulled it back ever so tight. "Where this arrow lands is my resting place!" Cried Robin, as he took up the slack. Loosing it off, he fell back with a gasp, And landed, dead, flat on his back. That's why as you go on your Nottingham Tour, You must see, if you are able, The last resting place of bold Robin Hood, In t'front bedroom... behind t'dressing table!
The end