(Hah! It didn't turn out at all Yeatsian. Never mind.)


It was an Ancient Mariner who went to Innisfree;
He had an albatross to sell that stank to buggery.
We told him it was rotten, but he muttered “Just well-hung;
It only needs a little sauce to titillate the tongue.”

We’re pretty fond of game, but this one looked and smelt unpleasant,
Till one of us said “Listen, lads, it’s just a biggish pheasant.”
So, foolishly, we bought the thing - each man coughed up a shilling -
And asked the Mariner if he was competent and willing

To cook the bird for that night’s feast (the village was invited).
We offered him a pint of grog; he said he’d be delighted.
He built a chimney in the glade, then stuffed the beast with mud
And roasted it upon a spit, and basted it with blood.

But when the moment came to dine, the prospect was appalling;
He’d made the sauce from maggots, quite a few of them still crawling.
We choked it down, but left the beak and feathers on our plates.
Still, only one threw up, and that was poor old Willy Yeats.

I have a feeling you forget to enter them, Ann. Enter this one. I say it's a winner.

I've just seen it, Brian. Brilliant. If that doesn't win, there's no justice in this cruel world...

Aaaarghhh! Don't say it, Sylvia - it's the kiss of death!

It was an Ancient Mariner
Who went to Innisfree,
With an albatross about his neck
And a wish to leave the sea.

He found a man a-cropping beans
(One William Butler Yeats).
He wept: “I shot this albatross,
That’s why I have no mates.”

Said Yeats, “You need some therapy,
And therefore I suggest
You go and tell your story
To a random wedding-guest.

“Transfix him with your glittering eye
And tell of dreadful scenes,
Then come back to enjoy a stew
Of albatross with beans.”

Brilliant, George. Isn't the Mariner shriven by a hermit before he starts waylaying wedding-guests, though?

So maybe Yeats was that hermit...

Of course. I'm an idiot. Thanks for filling in the gaps for me.

Maybe I can pass this off as the naivety of youth rather than idiocy.

Here's my attempt:

It was an Ancient Mariner
Who went to Innisfree.
His creditors and former wives
Were closing in, you see.

The untimely loss of the albatross
Still weighed hard on his heart.
Now bee-loud glades (whate’er those were)
Might hold out some fresh start.

If bean-rows weren’t the softest bed
They’d let him stay, at least.
He’d been, for his joy-killing tale,
Soon thrown out of the feast.