This noble statue, of bronze (or is it marble),
This shaft, this menhir, this column at which we marvel,
In magnificent and noble verticality erected,
Is by feeble sporran and mere wispy kilt protected.

If its solid filled ears could but hear this glib talk of bosoms and hands,
Would a CAT (mud) scan reveal the stirring of its imagined glands
If such exist except in our imaginations,
Which spiral in ever deepening poetical machinations.

After contemplating the statue and starting his poetical wheels turning,
Doughty McGonnagall, in his inept but empathtic rhyming
wished the statue never the pangs of hunger to feel.
But of what hunger does he speak? For food? Get real.

When in days past the canny scuptor the chunky stane (or clay) he chiseled,
Chins, and angles that purported to exhibit nobility of visage grizzled,
Did he endow his his puppet, his dummy, his mannequin,
With the wherewithal with which his imagination, if any, could make him a man again.

Or is that a mere filled sprue hole,
Where molten white-hot metal once flowed in the mold like magma through the statue's soul,
And although now cold and solid and stiff within this shell of a bard,
Does it really matter, as long as its hard?

But wait, we who are mortal flesh in the bosom of the world,
Constantly leap to unjustified conclusions absurd
Are we even sure the noble statue portrays a guy,
His (her) adam's apple I cannot spy.