Conkers Bonkers
Conkers is a pastime,
That we remember every year,
When September comes we search about,
To find these gems so rare.
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When we’ve collected bagfuls,
Enough for you and me,
We rush them home to sort and grade,
Into classes one to three.
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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.
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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.
The Crazymad Writer 