The Admiral of the Mop Bucket
He wears a captainâs peaked cap upon his balding head, Though the closest that he comes to sea is buttering his bread. He runs the Seamenâs Mission with an iron, twitching hand, The grandest, proudest Admiral to never leave the land.
A true parochial patriot, he guards his tiny coast, Of Brexit and the Empire he will loudly, blindly boast. He frowns at foreign crewmen who come seeking soup and tea, And mutters, "Speak the King's, my lad, you're not on the high sea."
He spends his mornings counting out the Rich Tea in the tin, And logs the exact second that a visitor walks in. He moves the plastic hydrangeas a fraction of an inch, A micromanaging codger making volunteers flinch.
He laminates new notices to stick upon the wall: "No laughing after seven" and "No loitering in the hall." He checks the kettle's wattage and he rations out the milk, A pompous, petty tyrant of the quintessential ilk.
A prize and total wally in his double-breasted coat, The master of a building that is nowhere near a boat. With clipboard, tie-clip, whistle, and his narrow, beige worldview, Heâs Captain of absolutely nothing, through and through.
But glory strikes at 4 PM! He springs into command, And barks orders at the puddles with his megaphone in hand. While saluting a framed portrait of His Majesty the King, He trips into a mop bucketâand drowns a plastic ring.
