Mr Blenkinsop and I
Are much concerned to learn
That, somewhere in the further sky,
A frightful heat-belt lurks on high,
Where torrid ethers burn.
And I and Mr Blenkinsop
We take it rather hard,
Because all work will have to stop
Henceforth within the small work-shop
In Blenkinsop's back-yard.

For many years we labored there,
In Blenkinsop's back-yard.
And, in our town, plain folk would stare
And mutter: 'That's the learned pair
Who'll win the world's regard.'
We planned a gadget in that shop
To journey to the moon;
And deferential friends would stop
To speak to me and Blenkinsop
And ask of our balloon.

We'd built the thing of bits and scraps,
And loomed amongst our peers
As very scientific chaps;
Tho' privily we meant, perhaps,
To dodge the trip for years,
If not for e'er. But, while remained
The possibility,
Vast oodles of renown we gained,
And fulsome praise our townspeople rained
On Blenkinsop and me.

Alas for me and Blenkinsop!
Our name is mud in town;
For we have come an awful flop.
Gone is the kudos of our shop
And gone our vast renown.
Now I and Blenkinsop, my pard,
Walk 'mid derisive howls;
Although his lot is not so hard,
For in the Blenkinsop back-yard
Our ship now shields his fowls.