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I wandered lonely as a cloud,
O'er hill and fell,
But everywhere I went that day,
I found that awful smell.

The Farmer he had spread his muck,
He'd sprayed it far and wide,
Pity my fellow rambler,
For that smell he can't abide.

The muck was slimy neath his boot,
And in this muck he slipped,
Down he fell upon his face,
And from the slime he sipped.

He lay there in that sorry state,
His friends were filled with mirth,
He'd stained his brand new Goretex,
And that had cost the earth.

He ate his lunch with unwashed hands,
He sat with furrowed brow,
He'd come upon a crunchy bit,
It was something from a cow.

Far too late to spit it out ,
He swallowed without relish,
Then came along the stomach pains,
And soon those pains were Hellish.

As he on his death bed lay,
His friends all gathered round,
Waiting for those final words,
They did not make a sound.

"I shall not die a rich man",
Out loud his words did ring,
“ I failed to sell that recipe,
To McDonalds and Burger King".

Maggie, Maggie, waxing lyrical,
Of garlic growing wild,
That plant has her enraptured,
It's smell has her beguiled.

Wild garlic ever spreading,
Through England's valleys green,
Leaving behind it's legacy,
A smell that's quite obscene.

Garlic, garlic, growing wild,
In valley and in dell,
How can anyone like it?,
It's such an awful smell.

Smelling like the Paris Metro,
On a steamy summer's day,
But do we need to be like France?,
That's not the English way.

Get rid of all our garlic,
Let's give it to the French,
Clean up the English valleys,
We can remove that stench.

In good harmony we should live,
With our friends in the EU,
The French will love our garlic,
We'll make amends for Waterloo.

Maggie, Maggie, she is pleading,
To her heart it is quite dear,
"Save our English garlic,
Please leave it over here".

Maggie, Maggie, ever eloquent,
Of garlic growing wild,
But how can Maggie be so wrong,
The poor misguided child.