Poetry?

The Tay Bridge Disaster

by William McGonagall

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

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Recently the Sas'y Group held a William McGonagall poetry contest. It was monitored by Gene Marcus and there were three competent judges, including members Betty Marcus and Lori Neidert. Although there were many superb contenders, the three poems on the right were judged to be the prize winners.

Honorable (?) Mention

TO THE TUSCARAWAS

by Asnard P. Snirfleblitz *

Oh, pretty River Tuscarawas

With lapping waters so sonorous

Wending greenly through the factory plots

Leaving bright green algae spots.

How merrily you wind amid the tanks and stacks

Built with abatements in the tax.

You may not wind as much as your brother to the north,

Almost a moist ouroborus as he presses forth,

But you twist respectably through the twon

As you wind forward, as you wind down

Toward the river named for the state

Through the state named for the river, never late.

I tread your limestone path so white,

Ignoring dead muskrats as 'twere night,

Pretending I smell fresh aromas riparian

Instead of disgorged nutrients agrarian.

Oh, tiny river, more a creeck,

How can I my affection aptly speak?

My town was founded on your banks,

So here you have my heartfelt thanks.

*Writer stated: "You didn't seriously think I'd use my real name!"

Umm... Don't blame you Bob.

POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

1st prize

MY ASSIGNMENT TODAY

by Larry Hunter

My assignment today

For which I pray

Is to write my worse poem ever.

This is quite an endeavor.

The group is Scottish you see

Should the topic be

About hoarding money?

Or perhaps about the beauty of the motherland?

I'm told it is absolutely grand.

Or the beverage called Scotch

Which is quite the drink.

The people who invented it are neat I think.

Or the plaids of their clothes

Which cover from their heads to their toes,

The topics are many for such a diverse group.

It's like searching for a letter in alphabet soup.

Since a theme evades me

I will go sip some tea.

My thoughts have departed.

I better quit before I'm martyrd.

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2nd Prize

THE BARNACLE

by Jim Frost

What a strange thing is the barnacle

It sticks to my boat when to my farm I go

Here an explanation I should give

For it's not on a farm that I live

I go to my boat that's on a lake

Along side the road that I always take

To get to my farm that's far away

But someday maybe I'll go astray

Missing the road that goes to my boat

Alas, too long it could remain afloat

Coveed with barnacles, dozens and dozens

Perhaps I'll go over and use my cousin's.

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3rd Prize

ODE TO THE TEAPOT

By Ann Douglas Heflin

The teapot, that most civilized of inventions.

The teapot, always bodes us well of it's intentions.

Some are small, serving up a delightful treat for one.

Some are quite large, made heavy, sturdy, designed for a party fun.

The teapot, small, cunning in it's shape.

Perhaps with flowers on it's sides.

Dainty, feather light, for the hand of a fair young lady.

Whom in my heart abides.

Perhaps with a matching set up cups.

Small, too, for that dainty hand. Sweet little

treats, cookies in matching colours for that same

dainty hand.

The large teapot, the common teapot as one has

seen in a pub.

This common fellow, this container of hot comfort for

the weary.

Is a friend to all. A penny or two, paid to a serving

maid, will buy us a cup and lift the winter pall.

A dash of good spirits. A large bun, and a smallish

bit of cheese. Let the rain fall!

The Master of the house, on the hill.

He of the oveflowing till.

He has his own teapot.

The one made in far off China.

The one with the dear little boys, all

done up in pigtails and blue pajamas.

He has first pouring.

His tea is strong.

The cook in the kitchen, she bides her time.

She will have her second pouring of the tea when the Master

is tucked in for the night and she hears him snoring.

Her teapot is smaller, not so grand.

It is of pottery made in the town.

And it is brown.

The teapot of Old Granny that lives in her chill rooms,

Provided by her son.

She gazed at her Dear old teapot.

The one with the chips and cracks.

It's time almost done.

As is hers.

She remembers it new.

She sees the face of her son.

Rapt and excited to be given a taste of grown up fun.

Alas, he does not come to tea with her now.

He has a wife and four children of his own.

He pays for her keep.

He buys her less costly tea.

But he will not stay and visit.

So she sits and dreams of days gone by.

She and her teapot.

Tiny play teapots.

Sturdily made, to survive the tine hands that serve

up pot after pot of plain water 'tea' for the little girl's tea partys.

She had invited all of her dollies.

Teddy bear and giraffe look on from a shelf.

Sometimes Mother will stop by and have some 'tea' herself.