A park once full of hooves and plumes
Is, these days, totally unhorsed.
Its atmosphere is thick with fumes,
A kind of Ordeal by Exhaust.
The stately ruinís much-munched beams
Brought bills not easily defrayed −
Big Cats! The owner studied schemes
To guarantee a roaring trade.
Together, carnivore and car
Have, all told, co-existed well.
No lion yet has left a scar
On Mustang, Chamois, or
Next week, before the place is lost,
Work starts on shoring up the Hall
So that the pride that pays the cost
Will not, for once, precede a fall.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be
pleased to hear from you.