For sixty four years they have waited
Sweating gently in their caulked coffins
Full fathom five in Burma's ochre soil
An underground squadron dozing through
Decades untouched by thief or erk
Soon the chthonic crates will be exhumed
And their precious contents assembled
By shirtsleeved men in glasses hoping
That the rolling thunder of the mighty
Rolls Royce engines will shake the summer
Skies above the Weald of Kent once more