Forsooth ye bawcocks all, I must retire
With scotch in hand, fast kilted by the fire
My quill is limp; it’s passion duly spent
It will not write of Bristol or in Kent
Perchance, in time I will return to ye
With stiff straight pleats for all to see.

I trust this doughty thread will not soon die
But for the nonce Barry must say Goodbye!