Croydon

In a house like that

    Your Uncle Dick was born;

Satchel on back he walked to Whitgift

    Every weekday morn.

Boys together in Coulsdon woodlands,

    Bramble-berried and steep,

He and his pals would look for spadgers

    Hidden deep.

The laurels are speckled in Marchmont Avenue

    Just as they were before,

But the steps are dusty that still lead up to

    Your Uncle Dick’s front door.

Pear and apple in Croydon gardens

    Bud and blossom and fall,

But your Uncle Dick has left his Croydon

    Once for all.