April in May. (The snails got my marigolds).

 
As wet and windy,
as a spring fair,
oh tumble down and spin around,
the secret treasure is found.
 
They should name the pubs,
the Oliver,
the Cromwell,
that rang the church bell.
 
Now the gold is piling up again,
paintings are appearing from the whitewash,
as a warning to the rich.
 
The lych gate of all our fate,
the Bower is such fun mate,
pay your sodiers well,
for war may cure the hell.
 
All the dreams of pretty girls
and dancing swirls,
are come again this year,
old England is the coming fear;

where is the gunner's daughter?
of Passion's Dale and endless slaughter.

 
~