The Road to King's Lynn
At the “Youth” Hostel there’s something we lack
The ancient clients are not much craic
A microwave curry
Is devoured in a hurry
But the side order’s a tiny bit black
We think breakfast at Blakeney is wise
For there’s bird-life high in the skies
Age is no barrier
We spot a marsh harrier
And delight in the Two Magpies
In that bakery Den eyes the prize
He’s looking for something king-size
His senses awaken
To banana and bacon
And he’s drooling over the pies
After a bit of a road-rage melee
We stop at the Thornham deli
“Best coffee on the coast”
It’s an idle boast,
But the flapjack sits well in the belly
I mug up on the ‘53 flood
A story to boil your blood
Over 500 died
In storms far and wide
And the Larne ferry sank with a thud
We decide to give Sandringham a miss
The King’s not at home, nor his sis’
William’s away
And Harry can’t stay
Cause he burned his birthright, boo hiss
King’s Lynn’s past is hideously opaque
Each execution a grisly mistake
Tuesday Market wall’s marked
Where a witch’s heart sparked
When she was burned at the stake
But the town’s history has many a layer
In the Hanseatic League, an early player
The Duke’s Head, where we stay,
Was designed in it’s day [1683]
By Henry Bell, once the town’s mayor.
