by Nick Gisburne
A team of weary donkeys tows the cart.
The girls inside it grin, through gritted teeth.
At solstice, celebrations always start
With underwhelming orgies on the heath.
Tradition is an unforgiving beast.
Unable to avoid this ten-mile traipse,
The bargain-basement wenches of the feast
Are sozzled, off their skins on sour grapes.
A dozen pudgy pagans raise a cheer,
But only for the donkeys, not the girls.
A dangerously potent keg of beer
Ensures that every horny hero hurls.
For pilgrims, these interminable treks
Are festivals of disappointing sex.
