Kostas vendored hot air along with hot beer
In his kingdom ‘Ye Olde Crown by-the-sea’
His tales, though tall, always plausible
And intriguing to many more than me.
He had flown Russian Migs, no less
In Ceausescu’s secret armies in the past
Doing deeds that were less than chivalrous
Before the dictator breathed his last.
Sometime later he fetched up in London
With a wife who was other than great
And who spent his less-than-hard-earned money
At quite an alarming rate.
He took to his own devices
with his hostelry by the sea
and feathered his puffy nest
helped by others as well as me.
He repaid us with roubles that were rubbish
And dollars that were chaff
And then headed off into the sunset again
Leaving behind nothing but his knowing laugh