A sort of health care/café culture/second hand bookshop mashup tribute to William McGonagall

During a post-motorcycle headrush last year, I wrote an email to my friend in the form of a poem. I suppose the post should really be a tribute to Stephen Patrick Kelly, one of the good guys. Technically it’s not really a poem, more the result of an excess of neurotransmitters available in my synaptic clefts. I think it’s good enough to slap some paste on and stick up on the interestingnet, so get some of this;

It was on an exquisite autumn day in the month of November

A Monday or a Tuesday it’s difficult now to remember

I went off to Media Markt, got some new speakers and wee Ellie

Whilst footering around instead of getting dressed, did lose the remote for the telly

Which has absolutely nothing to do with my trip up to Neuch’ to visit Stephen Patrick Kelly

 

He strode into the caff with a daft big grin and his napper fairly shorn

And a sort of extremely elitist trendy camera bag, but with the camera itself long gorn

Whilst the sun went down, or maybe the overcast sky made it appear dark, he was drinking green tea

And we blethered, and he told interesting tales about life’s rich tapestry

Amongst them some precisions about paramedical training in the Chaux-de-Fonds and the folk doing their ASSC

 

We extracted ourselves from the caff with the smackhead waitress who couldn’t remember the name of the place

Off to the second hand English bookshop we did race

Only it really was getting on, and so unfortunately I had to up the pace

Although Stephen managed to get to the bookshop and from what he tells me, the prices there were ace

 

He got back into his muckle big motor and headed up to the Chaux-de-Fonds after handing the lady in the shop a few penny

Probably stuck on an obscure hoochter Tcheuctar tape by someone with a name like “Mary-Anne McIlhenny”

The drive up that road involves a temperature drop of several degrees

And in the winter, the balls off a brass monkey the cold can freeze

Stephen Patrick Kelly can tell magic stories of experience and yearning

And the best bit is that while he’s telling them, you can hear the wee wheels turning

 

Hungry for McGonagall? Get your gums round this