Sunrise like a cabbage,
Cliff Richard reaching a fab age,
He stretched and called Morrissey
Who was visiting Battersea,
Enquiring about a rakish boxer,
And people thought him a cat lover!
"Steve," trilled Cliff, "what are you up to?
Anything fun? And can I come to?"
"Mr. Richard," Moz said, "what joy it would be,
If you would join me at the Ritz for tea."
So Cliff threw on a salmon suit
With a cool mustard necktie to boot,
And dashed along to catch the next train,
Hoping Morrissey's ardour hadn't waned.
But lo! Fickle Steven disapproved
Of the way the garments' colours moved.
He took his leave abruptly like a full stop,
Leaving Cliff, with the boxer in a strop,
Outside a poorly-stocked HMV,
Mourning the tragic passing of humanity.
C. Sissons & J. McIntosh
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