I seem to think that one of my earliest posts on this blog was about rib-rolling, but it’s that time of year again where it becomes relevant to my routine, so the subject arises again. Sometimes when I’m in a tractor, listening to the radio, I can’t help looking at the scene around me and trying to come up with a little rhyme of some kind. Here’s the little bit of related nonsense I came up with the other day - I guess it was a little bit stream of consciousness! 
Rib-rolling is like painting
With a giant paintbrush,
With seeds to cover
I can’t seem to rush,
Listening to the radio
As up and down the field I go,
Whistling like yodelling -
Would you call that yistling
Or wodelling?
(I’m cringing and bristling!) -
I tell the stroppy seagulls,
With greedy beaks like a ship’s hull,
To go, “Steal someone’s chips
Back at the coast!”
But scavenging in soil
Is what they want to do most.
They don’t want to listen to me,
So I’ll go home for tea,
Listening to the Bringer of Jollity!
And on the route I take,
I’ll ponder…did Gustav Holst
Inspire Howard Blake?!
I think we say it both ways here, really.
