Thursday, 23 April 2015

Percival the prig by Grant Harbison

Prissy Percival pranced through Paris
Wearing tweeds that came from Harris
But Percival thought this was cool
Wearing a suit made of jagged wool
And the whole of his wardrobe consists
Of cloth that was meant for masochists
But that’s what appealed to his taste
All of his life he’s been strait-laced
It’s a life that’s been dreary and dull
Growing up on the Isle of Mull
Percy has never seen it that way
And always finds things to fill up his day
He’s never known a girl nor ever had a wife
And he’s been on his own most of his life
But that’s been something he never has missed
For the poor little fellow has never been kissed
He’s never ever gambled and he certainly doesn’t smoke
Folks on the island think he’s a joke
Prim and proper he still remains merry
And will never drink more than two glasses of sherry
Then one day he did a little dance
When he realised he’d saved enough money for France
So off to Paris he went
And all of his wanderings he deemed time well spent
He had a spring in his step and a tuneful whistle
This peculiar wee man from the land of the thistle
He whopped with joy at the splendour of the city
But it wasn’t hard to please this sad Walter Mitty
He kept up the pace hour after hour
Until he eventually arrived at the Eiffel Tower
“Anglais?” the people he met did say
“Non, je ne suis pas” he replied. “Je suis Écossais.”  

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