The Grebe of Glebe*

While passing through the sunny expanses of Glebe
I happened to view the flight of a crested grebe
That arrested my vision, it enchanted my gaze
Which took me back in time to those most wondrous days

Of which you may have heard when British knighthood was in flower
And brave deeds were done for maidens sequestered in very dark towers
Imprisoned there, it seems, by vile and seditious soulless torturers
And men in black cowls, who were exceedingly mortuous

By nature consumed, they were steeped in the Black Arts
Which led then into vices not practiced much in these parts
Of late, though I suppose, one might find them sometimes
In certain depraved haunts like that filthy pub in West Hamplines

At which I read poetry once and was threatened with bodily harm
By a vile tatooted knave who menaced me with his bulging arms
For he (the brute churl) did not appreciate fine art
But instead was a slave to the bodily passions that give their part

To so many of the ills that beset our beloved British nation
And draw sighs from the widow's breast while stirring legal negotiations
In the courts and there consume the time and money
Of an honest man who would rather be at home spreading honey

On his toast and contemplating the beauteous works of Mother Nature
As revealed in the presence of simple natural creatures
Such as the innocent crested Grebe
That I had the great good fortune to witness on one fine day in Glebe!

*(this poem, written by mois, is an attempt to match the work and style of the great William McGonagall. I wrote it specially for Amos.)