Post- Olympics they’ve gone crazy in our sleepy little village
there’s not been this much action since the Vikings came to pillage;
in the baker’s, giant rock cakes disappear while they’re still hot
but they’re not for consumption they’re for those who put the shot.
The ducks have fled the duck pond now it’s colonised by yachtsmen
On the High Street lycra’d sprinters could outrun the Flying Scotsman
At the WI, members are shedding their girdles
their jam’s gone to pot now they’re limbering up for the hurdles.
On allotments, sharpened bean poles are being used as javelins, while
the vicar beats the postman to complete the fastest mile.
They’re boxing at the ‘Black Bull’; it’s Taekwondo at ‘The Crown’
and wrestlers on the village green have knocked the maypole down.
The sandpit from the toddler group’s been hi-jacked from the hall
but they’ll need a few more truckloads when they play ‘beach’ volleyball
At the Senior Citizens club they are donning their shorts;
whist drive abandoned, they’ve turned to competitive sports
Well it used to be that any exercise would leave me cold
Now, although I’m no Jess Ennis or Mo Farah with their gold
I jog daily to the chippy. In my eagerness I stumble:
my head is filled with memories of their exploits as I tumble.
‘No pain, no gain’ I mutter as I land upon my bum
I know practising makes perfect: look out Rio, here I come!