[Brian Allgar]

(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.