Duelling doggerel!

Och, Mc Tag ye soond a mite
A bit, a tad, a wee saddie
Ye'll hae tae find a style tae suit
Yoursel' - get tae it laddie!

Here's a little nudge:

For where tha bagpipes loudly skirl
As once did bonnie Jacobites
Thar kilts tha sway, tha laddies whirl
Aroond like dervish transvestites
Do ye no ken tha' class o' Scot?
They'll drink ye under, aye, and over
Braw laddies all, each one a sot
Would have ye run for cover!
Draw heart from such, tha' Pictish crew
Of hammer-throwers and cabers
They're camp as tents and comic too
Let them inspire your labours!

I have the notion
That Mr. Motion
Tried to free
From Liz and Pip's
Stiff upper-lips
A smile or two, or three

He was foolish
A little droolish
I'll concede happily
I've heard the rumour
A sense of humour
Is not needed by royalty....


('OFF WITH HIS HEAD!' said the Red Queen, looking, well, red....)


Bring back the Lord of Misrule say I!
And not for one day either....




to you
Deserved his fate




Is now considered

Good stuff, friend Doggerel(1)
What a star
Truly you are
Your poems remind me
Of Tracy Emin's bed
Warm, unkempt, rumpled
An enigma wrapped in a mystery
Inviting, artistic
And daft.
I like that in a poet.

"Camp as tents and comic too"?
I'll have ye know, the likes of you
That never wore the tartan trew
Or joined the clans from near and far
That gather yearly at Braemar
An' ither airts, the de'il kens whaur
Should watch their language
It's comin' yet, for a' that, man
Your knuckle sandwich

Oh dear, the Jocks, at Lansdowne's ground
All played like haddies, I'll be bound
Or kippered herring
They got what they deserved, I fear
And must now wait another year
To best owld Erin

A 'knuckle sandwich' thou sayest aroo?
I'd say to thee that first
Needs must this skippy kangaroo
Be caught within thy fist!


(Will post a lot more when have more time....)

you have missed your vocation in life mct

(you poettin me?)

"skippy kangaroo "

is this a clue
as to where you boo?*

*boo= olde englishe = be


...not

Thou art cryptick
(Or but elliptick?)
'Tis hard to wit or say
Wit Olde Englishe wordes
I'll no draw swordes:
They'll pyrce me all the waye...

In fact, I might have to resort to my own, quite unique version of Welsh (i.e. entirely invented) to maintain my air of mystery....

Or maybe a paper bag over my head will be less work?

Och, MyTag ma braw wee laddie
Tha' post t'me soonds a wee maddie
Is yer hairy sporran
Empty and torn
From hangin' aboot wi' haddies?

P.S. What exactly is a haddie? Sounds interesting...

A haddie is a haddock, an edible fish, usually seen split and filletted, like our team.

And btw- why did I think you were Irish? Then Australian, now Welsh? I must be thinking of three other people.

A label, yes, the guinea stamp
A rose by other name
It's all the same to me, as said
By Lauder of his hame:
"Frae a' the airts the wind may blaw
Ye're welcome here at Lauder Ha' "
Lauder Hall was once his gaff
But now it is a transport caff
And Sir Harry L, once a showbiz star
Forgotten now, as many are

It's just amazing how off the subject I can stray
Even if the subject was set by me
And even if I may yet return to it one day
This verse is nothing if not free
Free association, free of form, of value and of merit
Free of any redeeming features I could claim
It is the kind of stuff which should be buried
And anyone who wrote it deserves blame

By the way, in case the rulebook you've not had
They say poetry on this thread ideally should be bad

McTag: thou soundeth a tad
Disheartened, even somewhat sad
Thinkst thou thy labour
Hath poor reception?
Not true: I do savour
Eye with delection
Thy efforts, tries, essays
Thy lines, quatrains, lays
Auld lang syne?
Tha' pleasure's mine

Thou neednae worry thy wee heid
Aboot masel, o' Scotia's breed
Och no, losh sakes, I'll state indeed
I'm never better
I'm gay in a Gay Gordons way
In Fair Isle sweater

Och no, I jest, it's from PriMart
A store that's at our city's heart
Not knitted where the black rocks part
The ocean's rollers.
Where sea birds swoop from Fair Isle's strand
And follow trawlers

So gay and patterned it is not
And so I seem a silly clot
Attired like many a drunken sot
Detained by bobbies
Cool knitwear isn't seen a lot
In cop shop lobbies

so you nicked it from primart?
and now you want some sympathy?

We're off to the pub, the rubbidy-dub
And a fine time we'll have there, I'm sure, sir
We talk such a lot, toss many a pot
It really is my kind of boozer

Ah, well, it seems the poetry muse
Perhaps deserted most of youse
And I am left here with my booze
Too much of which is not good news

Was wondering when might be the time
To throw out there a little rhyme
Cause silence only suits the mime
To see some more would be sublime

Here a pome, there a pome
Everywhere a pome-pome

Nudge

Got the rhyming pneumonia
Need a shot of verse I can use
My heart's beating thythm and my soul keeps singing the blues
Roll over, Beethoven, and tell Tschaikovsky the news

diahorrea more like




very good mct which pub?

That's most unkind.

The Farmers Arms