by NMMC Poet Laureate
In the corner of the Quarterdeck
there’s a locked and coded door;
It makes the tourists wonder –
they don’t know what it’s for.
There are even Volunteers
who are just as mystified;
Who are these special people
who must be locked inside?
They slip in there at nine-o-clock,
then leave again at five,
and some come out for lunch each day
in order to survive.
If you ask the Duty Manager,
you get a strange reply,
they mumble (I don’t think they know -
won’t look you in the eye).
Most are not in uniform,
with varied forms of dress,
but finding what they DO in there
is anybody’s guess.
Most don’t have Cornish accents,
so they can’t belong down here,
they come and go at leisure –
and some just disappear!
I think they are 'Illegals',
not a Visa to their name,
I’ll inform the Border Agency –
That will stop their little game!!
