The Ash Cloud.

(To the tune of the folk song “The Ash Grove” . .  all together now . . . )

The Ash Cloud how slowly, how widely ‘tis spreading,

The gunge that it carries has grounded all planes.

The poor folk at Heathrow and Paris and Stockholm

All earthbound and stranded, must head for the trains.

And blooms from Botswana, and boiled hams from Parma

Aren’t reaching the airports, and nor are the mails.

So when Morrisons closes, no more Cadbury’s Roses . .

We can watch it on telly while we chew on our nails.


We're not self-sufficient; one must see the import
of no local airport to unload the freight . . .
There'll be shortage of commodities, of all of the oddities
that people are accustomed to find on their plates.
No bananas or mangos, no frills or fandangos,
just plain bread and water might soon be our fate.


When the Ash Scare is over, we'll be back in clover.
With three loud "Hurrahs!" we will regain the skies.
We should try being humble, for our Earth will still rumble.
And someday, somewhere, we'll get one last surprise(*)


(Thanks to Jinksy for the third verse!)
(*) Could be one or other of the known supervolcanoes going off pop.
Some regions of Yellowstone are allegedly rising 6 FEET per year.