A posh London couple came to live in the village.
Jerome and Felicity Hannington-Smythe,
They were very obviously extremely well off,
We all hoped that while here they would thrive.
They bought the cottage next to the church,
The one that had belonged to old Mrs Wells,
Well, they hadn’t been there but a couple of weeks
When they complained to the vicar about the bells.
They said they’d come for peace and quiet,
It was certainly not in their line
To listen to noisy bell-ringing practice
Every Tuesday evening from seven till nine.
They often heard the organist practising,
Playing well into the night,
“Upon our lives this constant sound
Is casting a dreadful blight.”
They managed to upset the whole congregation
With their demands for peace and quiet,
The poor vicar was torn all ways at once
There was very nearly a first class riot.
They then complained about poor old Sam Dale,
He lived on the opposite side of the road,
He’d been keeping hens for years and years,
And, of course, at dawn his cockerel crowed.
“It’s got to go,” they loudly claimed,
“Horrible creature, disturbing our sleep,
And those noisy animals in the field behind,
Baaing and bleating, stupid sheep.”
“Those tractors should be kept off the lanes,
You’d think these farmers would have more sense,
My husband now has to spend his weekends
Cleaning the mud from his Mercedes Benz.”
“The smell from the pig farm down the lane
Is upsetting my delicate constitution,
Something urgent needs to be done
To combat this awful air pollution.”
“It’s not just Jerome and I who suffer,
Our poor little children, Belinda and Piers,
Are not at all happy at their new school
And often come home in floods of tears”
“It’s not their fault if they don’t like this place,
They were brought up in a gentler sphere of life,
Their private school was top of the league
And no-one there dreamt of carrying a knife.”
“The noise and the smells are truly ghastly,
The people are common, not really our sort,
A rural life is now out of the question,
It’s not as idyllic as we first thought.”
They’re selling up and going away,
Back to London so they say,
So goodbye and good riddance to the Hannington-Smythes,
Those appalling snobs, the bane of our lives.