Updated: Dec 7, 2018
There was a watchman with rangy whistle,
Walked the motte wall and stared at a thistle,
It swayed with the wind,
Then it did bend,
From it came a reaping wood missile.
Ernest, who practiced dithery,
Known for his great wordsmithery,
Wrote while drunk,
He was a drunk bard's epitome.
A preacher with a stolen pulpit,
Searched for the thieving culprit,
He scanned every face,
Displayed no grace,
And was found disqualified to mount it.
Two patrons of Pub Eleven,
Drank there until seventy-seven,
When the Troubles moved in,
With gunfire din,
Taken from pub seats to heaven.
Unsettled by public school grammar,
And teachers who prod and hammer,
A lad barely eight,
Ran off with hate,
Where no one could mock his stammer.
The sun also rose in the West,
Above pines and peaks it did crest,
Shone on meadow and prairie,
Did not long tarry,
And fell to where it sets best.
There was a cold-footed fox,
Who entered coops in his socks,
Though warm and silent,
His fall violent,
There's no mercy from banty cocks.