A Seaman in Portly noticed some oily gross slime
Something awful, petrol-y being dripped all the time
He got up his courage, took a plastic jug in hand
And filmed the muck he scooped up from Poole’s once-pristine sands
An uproar and an outcry rose up in noble clime
And soon all people everywhere were shunning it like lime
The beaches, docks, and water were all under a decree
No one could plunge or paddle there in the oil-filled debris
The Poole Harbour regulator spoke up and said out loud
That deep within the Wytch Farm oilfield, an error had been found
The giant leak of 200 barrels made their spirits sour
It was quickly declared an incident of major power
What can we do in this strange case, this question seems absurd
Perhaps we should await the day when Poole’s once-again perturbed
Until such time when all is well, dear friends, let’s stay away
And wish upon our lucky stars that everything’s okay!
