The newts were playing against the frogs
Within the woodland clearing.
The match was in its final stages,
Full-time whistle nearing.
The newts had scored a dodgy goal,
When the crossbar twig got busted,
The poor old frogs were hopping mad
And toadily disgusted.
The newts were winning two to one,
And holding out quite bravely.
“I hope it doesn’t start to rain,”
Their manager said gravely.
Those fateful words were barely said,
When drops began a-falling.
The manager, whose name was Kinker,
Said, “This is appalling.”
The River Barrow, that the pitch
Quite picturesquely bordered,
Burst its banks – “Get off the pitch!”
The ref quite brusquely ordered.
Kinker though refused to budge,
And watched the waters rising,
“Go back! Go back!” he called out loud,
Which others found surprising.
He tried to get the waves to cease.
Oh, beast of strange repute!
And sadly folks, that was the end
Of poor old Kinker Newt.