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There is a green place not far away they call the Mendip Hills,
Where in there lies a secret, under that which the farmer tills.
A rocky chasm buried deep, and in near silence too,
Save the eerie tinkling, of crystal clear water passing through.

Occasionally the clarity of this meandering stream, or pool,
Is disturbed and clouded by diggers using a trusty rusting tool,
For some way back or is it closer someone’s doing that,
Tis likely a Mendip digging party, egged on by its mentor, Jrat.

The master cave it was his wish, a worthy noble dream,
To dig them holes some deep, most dirty, even those that were clean,
But sadly now the time has come to lay at rest his well-worn shovel,
Though from where he is, I can scent, he can SEE that final tunnel.

So don’t give up you Mendip crew his tireless efforts were for you,
His guiding light will shine ahead through Mendips slimy, oft smelly goo
For sure enough by digging hard, in watery bows and muddy sink,
Someone will prod, or bang, or dive and find Jrat’s   the master link

Stuart Lindsay