Pretty much everything I’ve posted up to now at Medium has focused on world politics and social developments. But I wouldn’t want you all thinking I’m a one trick pony, I have a few more strings to my bow. Here’s a bit of seasonal whimsy to celebrate the solstice. It was written as a tribute to William Topaz McGonagall, reputedly the worst poet ever published in the English language. Perversely, McGonagall is regarded at a literary hero now, post modern irony has rendered his verse pure comedy gold.

All poems like this should begin with a noise known in the trade as “The Bardic Groan” a sound that closely resembles the distress call of a terminally wounded bull buffalo that, thinking it has found a good place to die, lies down only to find its bollocks have landed on a thorn bush.The bardic groan is said to contain all the misery and hopelessness of the human condition.
Kippers BTW are smoked herrings.

CLICK HERE to hear the audio version

The Headless Horseman
(written & perfomed by Ian R Thorpe — creative commons licence, attrib, non com, no derivs)

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Headless Horseman — image: pinterest

It was in the depths of winter
On the langest nicht o’th’ year
That the heidless horseman made his ride
Throe the glen o’ Balquiddhir,
An’ oooh the people o’ the glen
Wad blether, quake and fear
When the heidless horseman was aboot
On the langest nicht o’th’ year.

One year, ’tis told, fog shrouded the glen
An’ not a single star illumed
The road as a lone traveller set oot.
That foolish man was doomed.
Because just aforem, a cart arrived
Laden wi’ oatmeal, sporrans and French wine,
A flitch of Ayrshire bacon
And a crate of kippers from McAuliffes smokehouse on the banks o’ Loch Fyne (always available at a verrrry reasonable price from Moriarty’s Highland Deli in Edinburgh.)

Aye, all the cargo was intact
But no driver held the reign.
The innkeeper and ostler warned that traveller
But he responded with disdain,
“No heidless horseman can frighten me
In some lonely Scottish gorge,
For I have fought the foreign foe
In the cause of Good King George.

Awa’ he strode intae the mist
And was quickly lost from sight.
And none may tell what happened next
Upon Winter Solstice night.
For the man was found the next grey morn,
His brain scrambled like eggs,
And a considerable number of large, hairy warts
Had grown upon his legs..
So if you ever venture
Tae the Glen o’ Balquiddhir
Keep well clear o’ the heidless horseman
On the langest nicht o’ th’ year.

MORE poems from Ian Thorpe

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