Crocodile Estampie

That feeling when you wake up one sunny Tuesday late in August and suddenly realize that you have memories longer than the road that stretches out behind:

Whan rocke was yong, I hadde a lusty tyde, And Susie walked ever at my syde; Hande clasped in hande, we casten stones, And hadde a golden chevvy for oure thrones.

A litel place was ours, and joie was rife, But moste of alle the pleasures of my life Was whan we daunces did in antic guise, To that straunge croc-rock, moste wondrous wise. Whil othere children carolled al the night, We hopped and bobbed with al oure might.

Now stamp thy fete, and crye out loud, For restlesse feet wolde never be cowed! Ne’er hadde I knowen such a merry space, Nor trowe I ever shal finde such a place.

O blessed Friday, whan the moon was bright, And Susie wore her gownen close and tight! Then Croc-Rock leapt forth with mickle glee, And danced beyond what mortal eyen see.

La-la, and la-la, as minstrel tongues might sing, La-la, la-la, and every merry thing.

But sone the yeeres passed over hill and dale, And rocke grew stille, like a broken tale. Susie departed with a straunge man, And left me for a bettra pension plan. Longe nights I wept beside the recorde-box, And dreamed of chevvy, breeches, and old frocks.

Yet though the world hath buried those delightes, It may not slaye the joy of former nightes. The Croc-Rock still doth burne within my brest, Though youth hath fled and age hath made his nest. Each weeke that passed, we learned somewhat newe, And deemed that Croc-Rock forever should ensue.

Now stamp thy fete, and crye out loud, For restlesse feet wolde never be cowed! Ne’er hadde I knowen such a merry space, Nor trowe I ever shal finde such a place.

O blessed Friday, whan the moon was bright, And Susie wore her gownen close and tight! Then Croc-Rock leapt forth with mickle glee, And danced beyond what mortal eyen see.

La-la, and la-la, as minstrels singe, La-la, la-la, of youth and every thing.

Whan rocke was yong, I hadde a lusty tyde, And Susie walked ever at my syde; Hande clasped in hande, we casten stones, And hadde a golden chevvy for oure thrones.

But chiefest joye that ever came to me Was Croc-Rock, danced beneath the moonlit tree. Whil othere folk made revels through the night, We hopped and bobbed with al oure might.

Now stamp thy fete, and crye out loud, Let every merry soul be heard amid the crowd! For though our youth hath flown beyond our sight, The Croc-Rock liveth still in song tonight.

La-la, la-la, and thus the tale is done,

La-la, la-la, beneath the setting sun.