The Ballard of The Byways

In the shadow of Stonehenge, on Wessex's vast plain, Where ancient stones whisper of druids and rain, The council assembled, with hearts bold and true, Invoking the shades of great Telford and McAdam too. "O pave we the rights of way!" thundered their cry, "Repair every wrong, let free passage defy The ruts and the potholes that vex mortal tread!" Thus spake they with fervour, and forthwith they spread Their edict afar: close the paths, tracks, and roads! No footfall nor wheel shall disturb these abodes.

But winter arrived, to their utter dismay, As if ne'er before had it darkened the day. Wet, cold, and relentless, it caught them off guard, So back to their offices— or homes— they repaired. They pondered and planned, in the rain's cruel grip, While villagers grumbled and let patience slip. Then lo! One bright morn, as the sun pierced the gloom, A truck rumbled forth from the mists of their doom, And dumped heaps of rubbish, foul detritus vile— "That won't do!" they bellowed, with vehement bile. "These tracks must be golden, like Oz's famed way!" So off went the refuse, to realms far away.

A month crept by slowly, or perchance it was two, When scraps somewhat better arrived in the queue. With shovels they spread them, in haphazard delight, Though progress was sluggish, a snail's weary flight. Six moons had now waned since the closures began, No vehicle ventured, no caravan ran; The natives grew restless, their tempers aflame, While councilmen dawdled, unburdened by shame.

The head honchos pondered, then sniffed at the track— "By Jove! Is this asbestos? We must pull it back!" They halted the labour — though labour was scant, A phantom of effort, a ghost of a chant. Nine months in gestation, like some epic birth, The work was completed, for what it was worth: Nineteen days of striving, in fits and in starts, Who could ask for more from such valiant hearts? Of all the closed byways, the lanes sealed with might, They'd mended but one — nay, just half, in the light.

O glorious triumph! O feat without peer! Trebles all round, let the trumpets ring clear! Strike medals for workers, those titans of toil, Who conquered the chaos with bureaucratic foil. Thus ends the grand saga of Wessex's bold band, Who turned mud to... well, mud, on this hallowed land.