Conkers is a pastime,
That we remember every year,
When September comes we search about,
To find these gems so rare.
When we’ve collected bagfuls,
Enough for you and me,
We rush them home to sort and grade,
Into classes one to three.
The first are left to use right now,
And try our luck at play,
The second, to treat, to cure and bake,
Into champions, I do say.
The third are left for a whole year long,
Stuck up the chimney flu,
Until their day of glory comes,
I’ll make do with grades one and two.