This is the month we send to you
Our wishes both sincere and true,
That you a Christmas may enjoy,
Forgetting things that you annoy.
Despite our fervent prayers to Heaven,
This year of nineteen-forty-seven
Has seen our “basic” filched away —
Ah me! Ah my! Alack-aday!
But what’s the use of breaking down,
With face set in an awful frown?
To stand and cry just like a fool
Would make no useful kind of “Pool.”
Instead the future we must face
With courage — let there be no trace
Of rancour — we our part must play
To expedite that brighter day
When trials and hill-climbs,rallies too,
Will dissipate the outlook blue;
Who knows? A fickle god is Fate —
We may not have so long to wait.
So welcome Nineteen-Forty-Eight,
And every month beside your plate
May you perceive — in place of port —
Your ever-welcome Motor Sport.