There was Angela, whose legs were one short.
There was Bhav, the Junior Minister for Sport.
There was Craven, the head guard at Gupping House.
There was Daz, a music teacher, diminutive, Scouse.
There was Ethelbald, a grumpy, obsolete king.
There was Farid, a lumpen oaf with a sling.
There was Gert, an insalubrious old lush.
There was Hera, in certain light the spit of Ian Rush.
There was Ingmar, heir to the Bündethrashet billions.
There was Jasper, the bastard, in the red by millions.
There was Kaspar, a Norwegian marksman on a sortie.
There was Little Les, a local favourite with an IQ of forty.
(There was me, of course, for quorum reasons.)
There was Norfolk, the Duke, a man for all treasons.
There was Oyvind the butcher, who went to school with Neil Stuke.
There was Pavel the goat, and his goatminder Luke.
There was Quackins the dwarf, symbolic head of the treasury.
There was Ronson the DJ, compiling a bestiary.
There was Simon of Athens, erroneously invited.
There was Timon of Athens, so rarely recited.
There was Ulrika, who I met on a bench.
There was Vern Fisher, munching a delicious tench.
There was Wendy, from Bourton-on-the-Water.
There was Xerxes, with his ruddy licentious daughter.
There was Yorick, alas.
There was Zoë, pissing in a pint glass.

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