Farewell dear colleague, it’s been good to know you;
as a liquid lunch companion, the one to go to.
But now I’ve heard a most disturbing rumour,
that’s spreading fast and growing like a tumour.
Say it’s not true, it must be just a joke;
the story is you’re off to Basingstoke!
This is no fitting end for such as thee,
this plate glass island, set in a concrete sea,
this septic aisle, this soulless shopping precinct,
this shapeless blot on Hampshire, Alençon linked,
this multi-level car-park ‘midst a maze,
where herds of cattle grazed in happier days.
In London all you desire is overflowing,
so we wish you well, but wonder why you’re going.
Some serious crime from which you need to flee?
A target missed? A drink-fuelled jamboree?
Perhaps you fell asleep as your manager spoke?
It still seems harsh, to be sent to Basingstoke.