To all the Ken Cracking upright men, to the pennywighters, tumble rumblere’s and rackets running. To all the grey guests and babes in the wood, hear this call. Black Caravans, and flags have fallen, and golden phoenix’s turned to ash. But those who remain, still who hear the call of yellow tin, green beer, berry wine and other fancy booz with all the stuffing. So all your upright anglers think of a club house of copper and moon by the sea where no one is mad, and times when you were almost clean.

But Enough of all this flashy lingo, we will be waiting.