Frisby Mill Lock

There're worse places to be, you can be sure, that there are

In some parallel existence, that's neither juxtaposed, or afar

But here, elsewhere doesn't matter, when you're taking stock

As the waters, cascade through, the disused, Frisby Mill lock

There are better places to be, probably, but they are not here

Stood at ease, upon this bridge, above the cacophonous weir

Its feeder river is obvious and gentle, the meandering Wreake

But here, this man-made tributary, likes to play, hide and seek