For those of you who are from far humbler stock than the nobles but still have a yearning to work in the human sewage business, we can offer you the position of gong scourer, or gong farmer.

This high-risk business, digging out solid blockages of compacted excrement in sewers and emptying stodgy cesspits can offer significant financial rewards. However, you are required to work unsociable hours when no one else is likely to be up. And your horse will probably be your best and only friend, bearing in mind the overwhelming stench that will continually surround you.

All applicants....Please email us at....   clearmastersltd@aol.com     if you dare!!!!  

A cold dark winter's night. I creep wheel down the track.

My cart and horse and me. On route to castle crack.

I arrive in total silence. I scurry like a rat.

My scoop my pail and candle. I head off round the back.

I check the bottom turrets. Woo, it's been a busy night.

The kings been entertaining. The walls are caked in shite.

I start to scrape and shovel. Collecting all I can.

It can be most rewarding. For the enterprising man.

These stately homes bring perks. When sorting through the soil.

Sweet gems and shiny coins. Payback for dirty toil.

This night I got to greedy. And pushed it to the limit.

A guest from up above. Let rip and put me init.

I stalked back to my cart. Head stooped and arms far out.

My horse just looked and laughed. I gave him such a clout.

A quick wash-down and clothes change. I headed right on back.

The busy guests won't sway me. I need to collect my stack.

Again I scrape and shovel. Dodging falling crap.

The stench is multiplying. It's running like a tap.

The kings been serving curry. The guests are feeling ill.

My jobs becoming dangerous. It's gonna take some skill.

I jig round like a boxer. My scoop becomes a bat.

I'm acting like I'm swatting flies. A six with every pat.

When suddenly from way up high. This one would make you frown.

Surely not, not one that big. It's gold. A shiny crown.

It hits the ground with such a splat. The crap has stunned its blow.

I wade in quick and scoop it up. It's mine. It's time to go.

From way up high I hear a scream. 'The king, he's lost his crown'
Send out the guards, send out the guests. It really must be found.

Within a sec the hoard arrives. Their candles burning bright.

But all at once their brakes are on. 'I'm not wading in that shite'

The King is shouting from the tower. He's bouncing off the walls.

With fingers wagging pointing out. 'It's down there in the stools'

From my viewpoint behind the hedge. I watch them stand firm ground.

The king he dangles from the turrets. And offers 100 pound.