Poetry Editor Ira Maine submitted this “Poem”
A poem by EUSTON STATION
William and Rodney, their joy is all gone,
For William is no longer with us.
We scattered his ashes out there on the lawn,
When he walks there, Rod trembles and shivers.
When visitors nowadays drop by his place
They’re delighted right up to until he
Archly suggests, with an innocent face,
They all come and sit on his Willy.
Your publisher feared for the reputation of this blog when out of the ether this arrived from a certain J. Albrechtson:
Dear Sirs, I wish to commend the editors of PCbyCP for publishng this most excellent poem. I feel at long last that it has measured up to its full potential and is no longer slavishly publishing dead poets in search of an audience that clearly does not exist anywhere in the southern hemisphere…
Though i haven’t heard of Euston Staton (sic) I am assured that he shall be the very next thing, and anticipate a Big Future for his bold and penetrating insights.
J. Albrechtson.
And then Sir Atney Emo contributed:
Fellow Aesthetes,
The sweeping majesty of the rhyme, the soul-stirring sentiments of Euston Station’s poem: these remind me of no-one more than the work of the immortal Scots bard, William McGonagall (1825 – 1902).
To prove my case, here are selections from his best-known elegy, ‘The Great Tay Bridge Disaster’.
It opens:
“Beautiful railway bridge of the silv’ry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.”
And it ends:
“Oh! Ill-fated bridge of the silv’ry Tay,
I now must conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.”
Billy Connolly delivers the entire poem at the site of the disaster:
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xfjhpw_william-mcgonagall-tay-bridge-disaster-billy-connolly_creation
Sir Atney Emo
Then Ira returned to the fray with:
Gentilhommes,
Another tortured verse has arrived by anonymous cleft stick this very morn . It demonstrates convincingly what agonies the protagonist suffers in the wake of his awful loss.
Rodney trembles and cries, makes multiple sighs,
And feels, without Will he has got naught.
Yes, I believe that the boy wants simply to die,
And be buried up somebody’s what-not!
The verse is presented precisely as it arrived here, and is unsigned. However there is a marked resemblance to that which has gone before and been attributed to the mysterious ‘Euston Station’.
The coarse vulgarity of the last line must be viewed in terms of agonies endured and must not be regarded as gratuitous flippancy.
We here at the seminary await with trepidation the next instalment.
Theophilus Skulk,
Doctor of Divinity.
And now Sir Atney Emo offers a correction:
“these remind me of no-one more than the work of the immortal Scots bard, William McGonagall (1825 – 1902).”
Should have been
“these remind me of nothing more than the work of the immortal Scots bard, William McGonagall (1825 – 1902).”
E. Dante
Then From Here we have more:
Mes Enfants,
OMG! The wonder of it! And how philosophically true!
‘For the stronger we our house do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.’
What style! What wit! What Jenny Say Kwah!
And, just by chance, through my open window, at this very moment, another cleft stick! With the following attached:
Int’ silv’ry Tay, where Tay Bridge sinks,
‘Tis enough to make us turn to drink,
And makes us think what loco motive
Turned the train into a boat. If
Falling down into the water,
Drowned some of Scotland’s sons and daughters,
‘Cos relaxing on the engine footrest,
The driver never saw the buttress
And this gets even much more weirder,
He didn’t even see the girder,
Go falling down into the briny
That wondrous train so smooth and shiny
Tumbling down, will-ee-nill-ee
And swallowed wholly by the sea.
Down there! Look here! and see the marks!
Was every bastard et by sharks?
Who came galumphing down the carriage,
And had their lunch well North of Harwich?
There’s little else, I’ll say it often,
‘Tis good Mc Gonagle’s in his coffin,
‘Cos listening to his awful bollix,
Will turn us all to alcoholics.
I leave this unsigned impenetrable mystery in your capable hands. Make of it what you will.
The very Reverend Dunsworth Froome, SJ.
And now from the other side:
From the Cleft Stick through the Window.
Oh see how the mighty now do fall…
I cannot spell Mc Gonagall!
With a pathetic, hopeless brainless wriggle.
I spelled Mc Gonag with an Iggle,
Which puts me on a par, it seems,
With Anthony Joseph Jesus Eames!
Who did, with perfect gallantry,
Confess his debt to pedantry!
Would I could but do the same
But my sin is from a lesser brain
That hardly ever learned to spell.
‘Spite all my work I spell like Hell.
If I’m to ‘fess in Tony’s manner.
I first must understand the grammar!
I don’t know where I get the time
To write this shit and make it rhyme,
Especially if your one desire’s
To use this shit to light your fires!
‘…was it for this I have thrown away mine ancient wisdom and become a stringed lute upon which all winds must play…’
Oscar Wilde.
Publisher’s Note: normal service will resume next week.