Croydon's Chairman is undeniably old,
As much to his chagrin he's so often told.
He states "I don't know why it's a sin?
All of these caves I've already been in.
And thery're all wet, nasty and Cold".
Our Treasurer is an incredible chap,
Through caves he's been known to zap.
Twice a year when he goes caving,
His speleological skills are amazing.
But his accounts are a load of old cr*p!
Now our Secretary whose name is Paul,
Is quite unbelievably hairy and small.
In caving and drinking there's no-one as keenest
People declare he's most scruffy and un-cleanest.
Despite walking in caves where others must crawl.
Bernard's a cad, despite his stutter,
Killing dogs that step out from the gutter.
Whole sheep in Wales he would roast,
Raise his glass to the locals and toast:
"New Zealand's are better" he'd mutter.
Chris Crowley is a funny old bloke,
He treats mini-rockets as a kind of a joke.
With pyrotechnics he loves to fiddle,
Finding most public places to piddle,
Spraying the on ire causing others to choke.
Martin the Editor never acts posh,
Even tho' his Rohan pockets are bulging with dash.
When accused of never going caving,
He'd exclaim "Over Pelobates I am slaving!
Whose cottage is this anyway, Bugger Off!!"
Jackson's a man with a trade
In pulling teeth his lot is made.
Above patients screams he shouts,
"This ones gonna' come out!"
Not surprisingly, he never gets paid.
Chris Fry is a man who loves a good drink.
Of new fund raising schemes he would often think.
"I'll not sell you a raffle ticket,
You'll just tell me where to stick it!"
Instead, I bet £5 your pint I could sink.
The Publicity Officer's name is Wray,
Away from committee meetings he did stay.
"Now listen hear sonny"
said the Chairman, "it's just not funny
You're becoming more useless than me everyday."