Ely is a lovely city - incredibly posh and up-market - with a nice big Cathedral, lots of wonderful tea shops, a fantastic independent bookshop, the best antiques dealer in the county, and a beautiful river front. But...there's one person soiling it for everyone. I have immortalised the issue I have with this person in the form of a rhyme.
The Problem With Ely
It's a beautiful city, with one major downside,
the streets are slick with sick on which to slide.
On Friday evening the streets are clear,
but come the next morning, the unpleasantness appears.
It's regular as clock work, universally hated,
some posh toss-pot who struggles being inebriated.
Yes, the Ely Vomitter strikes again!
with chunks of peacock and grouse and hen
poured on to the streets in suspicious piles
so that getting to Waitrose is like a hurdles time trial.
The whiff of regurgitum floats on the breeze
and in a fit of despair I sink to my knees
(this is difficult to do with the streets washed with vom
but I find a dry patch to be melodramatic upon.)
'Why Ely Vomitter, do we really deserve this?'
'To have Saturday mornings marred by your gastric disservice?'
I've bought some wellington boots and some disinfectant spray
I won't let this upper-class up-chuck ruin my day!