The quest continues
or
Who knows how many fish live in the sea anyway.

The sausage sets on the setting sun,
Our travellers lay to rest,
And venturing rancid chelsea bun,
Is what a TV best.

The moon sinks up into the sky,
Shadows of garden shed,
The Sausage Man he wonders why,
The PK isn't Fred.

Of course he cannot someone else,
And travel to Stonehenge,
And search to vanquish Hermit Crab,
And eat a fishermans friend.

The Sausage Man he wrote a novel,
But it is hard to tell,
What the PK did that night,
For he did have no shell.

The Sausage Man he snored aloud,
And slept his droth away,
The Pumpkin Kid now free to gig,
He dreampt of schoolboy days . . . . . . .

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