Droll

A droll old gent in a bowler hat,
Strolled down the lane with a cheeky grin,
He chatted to sparrows, tipped his flat cap,
While a squirrel offered him a gin.

The baker’s lad, quite a queer chap,
Sold scones that sang when they were warm,
Each bite a giggle, each crumb a clap,
A tea‑time tale that kept us humored, warm.

So if life seems a bit too stern,
Seek the droll delight in everyday turn—
A wink, a pun, a silly concern,
For Britain’s charm lies in the quirk we learn.