Tending the Wrong Grave for 23 Years

A mistake has been made It's a fact they can't hide Though I'm partly to blame, it cannot be denied There ain't no use defending It seems I've been tending The wrong grave for 23 years A letter dropped onto my doormat one day And I thought: "I'll ignore that, it might go away" And I took up my shears To the place where for years I presumed my sweet darling had lain Curse those in charge of plots Curse these forget-me-nots I've been sharing my innermost thoughts with an Edward McGray I'm inconsolable and at times uncontrollable Ah but she wouldn't know 'cos she's two hundred metres away Let's complain... On my long weary journey back home I took the less frequented path and ended up in the Meadow of Consolation. It was a magical place – I half expected a nymph to appear, shyly from out of the brake. Some not unexpected sheep from the brushwood; and me dressed as a dandy in practice for the Summer Eights ...even the glebe cow started to drool ...but then, almost inevitably, Claire Rayner appeared I'm numb from the sting That I've been tending The wrong grave for 23 years I walked up in autumn, I ran up in spring To the wrong grave for 23 years Oh ding-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling Now ain't that a thing The wrong grave for 23 years The wrong grave for 23 years The wrong grave for 23 years