Now with measured steps, we leave this hall,
And turn our backs on poets great and small,
But as for rodents, one stand out above them all:
It is the Scot, Wiliam McGonagall

Who with a blink, a nod, a tip of hat
Could turn a poem out just like that
And leave it lying there before the madding masses
Like some ripe fruit produced by horse's asses.

Never as great as Burns, never as wise
Never with tongue as sweet, or clear his eyes
But as for length of product in numbers round
It may be that our William won hands down.