I doubt that you will pen a single line
About ambrosia, dished out by God,
For nectar up in Heaven, though divine
Grows bland and makes one long for Whitby cod
Its batter, dripping fried, wrapped in The Sun
And eaten on the sand, watching the tide.
And deer on the Elysian plains don't run,
You cannot stalk them as you cannot hide,
There is no sport, the animals are tame.
Good writing needs sharp contrast, there's no thrill,
When every day is lovely, dull, the same.
We'll miss you and our tears as they spill
Will be as ham in one of your reports:
'As salty as a fat man's cycling shorts'.