On top of his tomb his effigy lies,.

His bones beneath, are all that remains of the once brave knight.

His deeds if any are all forgotten, his face in stone

is probably that of any old knight,

so we don’t even know how he looked.

The council’s more bothered about the roof.

The lead’s been looted to sell to the tatters.

The wood’s got beetle; there’s damp in the walls

And the mice have got at the hassocks again.

The number’s are down just the regular few

A baker’s dozen if you count Sir Hugh

But he doesn’t have a great deal of choice

He’s been there five hundred years.