THE LORD OF DISCORDANT POETRY RIDES AGAIN

mcgonagall3

A Descriptive Poem on the Silvery Tay:

Beautiful silvery Tay,

With your landscapes, so lovely and gay,

Alongside each of your waters, to Perth all the way;

No other river in the world has got scenery more fine,

Only I am told the beautiful Rhine,

Near to Wormit Bay, it seems very fine,

Where the railway bridge is towering above it`s waters so sublime,

And the beautiful ship Mars,

With her juvenile Tare,

Both lively and gay,

Does carelessly lie by night and by day,

In the beautiful bay

On the silvery Tay.

~~ William Topaz McGonagall ~~

TayBridgeDisaster

William Topaz McGonagall was born of rather impoverished Irish parents in Edinburgh, Scotland, in March 1825; and then again one week later in an entirely different location to Planet Earth. How could this be you wonder? Was he an alien of some exotic celestial foreign extraction, or did his poor mother think herself twice blessed and call him by another name and think herself the ma of two young sons? McGonagall  is Legend, that`s all we need to know. If his poetry doesn`t seem to make much sense, that is entirely our own fault; we possess neither the wit nor the wisdom to unravel such lyrical, and literary genius on the colossal scale of the likes of this behemoth of poets, but simply consider ourselves unworthy to linger within the afterglow of his fiery shadow.

The family settled in sunny Dundee while William was but still a wee lamb, and he never left the place, so holy and conducive to his prodigious talents did it seem. He dabbled in a spot of theatrical dramatics and married one Jean King in 1846, while he had a few moments of spare time between composing first one masterpiece, and then another. Such was the over loaded state of his sinapses, hurricane strength electrical storms surged from brain cell to brain cell, as words poured forth onto the expectant, virginal pages as if gushing from a mental Niagara Falls.

power-of-books

It was always a worry that his head would explode, as the vigor of his stupendous intellect made his creative juices seethe and writhe with almost uncontrollable force as they traveled faster than the speed of light inside his cranial cavity. His first collection of unrivaled poetic gems was published in 1878, and from there after, it was as if a thoroughbred race horse has let slip it`s traces and galloped off at a frisky pace to superstardom. At his reading of his work, he would dress in full highland gear, and became a cult figure in his time, although many attended to catcall and throw rotten fish, and local authorities banned him to save townsfolk from rioting in protest for some unknowable reason………..Such is the cross that genius has to bear. For such a man, the word “Great” is too small an epitaph for such a unique artistic talent. William Shakespeare eat your heart out………McGonagall Rules Okay?

OLD-PIPER-HEADER

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