The Wanderer - issue 119 - http://www.wwisc.co.uk/

THE LEFT-HANDED ARCHER
The Lincoln hordes arrived at dawn,
With battle lines distinctly drawn,
Their touted brother generals stood,
The way impending victors would.
Yet in the way of Impish joy,
A stern blue army of Chairboys,
Upon their own momentous wave,
The road to glory, partly paved.
As both sides took up arms that day,
With fate uncertain in their way,
The gathered crowd roared on the men,
The Park a loud tempestuous den.
With the clash about to start,
All fevered brows and fluttered hearts,
A Welsh left-handed archer, Joe,
Drew back the string of his longbow.
Upon the breeze, an arrow flew,
And hit its target, flush and true,
The Wycombe faithful yelled with verve,
The arrow had turned on a curve!
Before the Lincoln men could find,
Some new repose of soul and mind,
A second arrow found its mark,
And raised the roof of Adam’s Park!
For yet again the shot had found,
A path of flight less straight than round,
And sheer confusion took the foe,
With sure defeat writ on that bow.
And though the battle ebbed and flowed,
And Lincoln halved the heavy load,
Their hope was but a short reprieve,
From certain doom that archer weaved.
With one last arrow drawn and primed,
That hero Joe so aptly timed,
The speed and flight to curve again,
And so compound the Impish pain.
At last the weary left the field,
The red and white men brought to heel,
As cheerful flags of quartered blue,
Proclaimed the victory anew.
And to this day, in Lincoln bars,
Their folk remember from afar,
The day they were destroyed by bow,
And the Welsh left-handed archer, Joe.
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