A Tribute to William McGonagall who died 100 years ago, in his unique style

I salute you William McGonagall of Dundee,
That beauteous city by the River Tay,
Where fine strong rope from jute is made
And also many delicious varieties of marmalade.
Yes McGonagall, poet of Scotland,
Whose every verse is fit to stand,
Alongside that of Shakespeare or Eminem,
You were truly fortunate among Scotsmen,
For your Presbyterian faith devout
Never once permitted you to doubt
That your talent was a gift from God,
And so you did not think it odd
That your lines lacked rhythm and did not scan.
You were the poet of the pragmatic businessman,
Spreading your gift with great generosity,
You became the pride of old Dundee,
The famous rope and marmalade town
Where a sea captain named Spence did once drown.
McGonagall, the essence of your art,
Lay in the fact that you were not very smart,
But made up for that with self belief,
A Scottish soul and tartan teeth.
I honour you above all other bards
For your uncanny skill at assembling words,
And in this year, the centenary of your demise
Your name should be written in the skies,
So that our memory may never fade,
And you will be ever as famous as marmalade.

Ode to Porridge
(A tribute to the most Scottish of all things in the style of William McGonagall )

To be read aloud in the voice of Scotty from Star Trek.

There is one thing inspires the men of oor land,
Puts lead in our pencil and gives strength to oor hand.
It is made with salt, treacle, oatmeal and grit,
Looks like wet concrete and tastes - well a bit
Like the Nectar in Heaven on which the gods feed,
Aye the Scots are a noble and well - favoured breed:
A statement with which I'm sure all will concur,
From the slopes of Ben Nevis to the streets of Edinburrrgh,
For a bowl of hot porridge can provide far more bliss
Than a night of sweet love or a song by Elvis.
Those who follow the religious teaching of John Calvin,
Will know pleasure for pleasures sake is a mortal sin,
Akin to drinking strong drink or spilling your jism,
But a fondness for porridge is like masochism,
And by any criteria does not qualify.
And that my good friends is the reason why
A fortunate fellow indeed is he
Whose wife knows how to make his porridge properly.

My verse is a poor pastiche of McGonagall. I do manage to lose the meter for a few lines but the great man wrote with utter disregard for rhythm, scansion, grammar, syntax, metaphor and any kind of feeling for language. So long as it rhymed it worked for him. In order to appreciate the gargantuan ineptitude of this unsung genius visit the link below.

The Burns Day joke in celebration of Robert Burns 250th birthday