"The Broads Boating Blues"
In Norfolk, where the Broads stretch wide,
A tale unfolds of the boating tide.
The season's start, a joyous sight,
Yet the Broads Authority brings a comical plight.
With tolls that rise, absurd and grand,
They're like pirates, ruling the wetland.
Their coffers grow, the boaters groan,
As wallets weep and bank accounts moan.
Public moorings, a rare delight,
Like unicorns, a mystical sight.
The Broads Authority grins and winks,
Leaving boaters adrift, scratching their chins.
Oh, Ranworth Staithe, once full of cheer,
Now deserted, a ghostly pier.
The pub has closed, the laughter ceased,
£10 mooring fees, the culprit released.
No more pints by the water's edge,
As wallets wince on the Broads Authority's ledge.
The pub doors shut, a mournful fate,
For a mooring fee that's just too great.
Flotillas of hire boats, a chaotic brew,
Like bumper cars, but on water they cruise.
Reckless captains, clueless and bold,
Crashing into boats, their stories unfold.
Fixing up our vessels through the winter's haze,
Only to face the hire boat craze.
A symphony of bumps, a chorus of crunch,
As chaos reigns and boats go punch by punch.
So here's to the start of the Broads boating season,
A laugh at the Authority's toll-raising treason.
Moorings scarce and fees absurd,
Yet, we navigate with humour undisturbed.
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The Broads Boating Blues
The Broads Boating Blues
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