Angus MacTarr

Angus MacTarr
Was a rock n' roll star,
Played guitar like a demon from hell.
His head-banging chords
Drew the youngsters in hordes,
And most of the oldsters as well.

As a dancing attraction
He outshone Michael Jackson,
His performance was hard to believe.
With a leap and a shout
He would turn inside out,
And then disappear up his sleeve.

At the last Rock Awards
He danced on crossed swords
His guitar screaming wild to the beat.
While his rubberlike limbs
Did impossible things,
As his fans screamed along at his feet.

Now someone had put,
The swords, sharp edge up,
(By error I'm sure - not design.)
But he wasn't aware,
That a problem was there,
Being turned inside out at the time.

His left pinky toe
Was the first thing to go,
As he and the guitar screamed high.
Then with Wilkinson ease
They were up to his knees,
And Angus was down to a thigh.

Though it's strange - it's a fact,
He went on with his act,
For the show, as we know, must go on.
As he rolled and he rocked
He was whittled and chopped,
Until Angus MacTarr, had all gone.

The crowd clapped and cheered
As the star disappeared,
And whistled and stamped acclamation.
But it's hard to do more,
Or give an encore,
At your posthumous standing ovation.

Tasty Music

"Music hath charms." the maestro said,
"It soothes the savage breast."
Then off into the jungle sped,
To put it to the test.

He tucked a violin in place
Beneath a downthrust chin.
Glanced briefly at each savage face,
Prepared then to begin.

His fingers danced the eager strings
That sang beneath the bow,
Of beautiful, poetic things
In music's gentle flow.

He flauted on a fluent flute
With feeling and finesse,
And lavished on a limpid lute,
A lovers fond caress.

He played his music without stop,
Beethoven, Brahms, Puccini,
And then they boiled him in a pot
With carrots and zucchini.

The maestro sat upon a cloud
And strummed a solemn harp,
With haloed head devoutly bowed,
And calm and peaceful heart.

A passing angel said, "My friend,
What happened down below?"
"Those savage breasts you sought to soothe,
Why did they treat you so?"

The maestro plucked upon a string
The 'Melody In F'.
Replied, "A sad yet funny thing,
Those cannibals were deaf."

"Yet, I think it's true to say,
For here I am to prove it."
"Although they couldn't hear me play,
They had a taste for music."

Sing-Along-Sam

A canny wee Scotsman called Sammy MacNabbitt,
Was possessed of an odd an' peculiar habit.
He'd sit on the roof of his wee Scottish hoose,
An' sing all day long 'til the tiles rattled loose.

In MacNabbitt tartan, he'd start every mornin'
In kilt an' in sporran as daylight was dawnin',
With beret on head an' bagpipes in hand,
He'd sing an' he'd play like a wee Celtic band,
An' he'd dance to the skirl of his bagpiping lilt
With the whirl of a wee Scottish breeze up his kilt.

Now Mrs. MacNabbit did not have a hunch
That he'd slip on the haggis she'd packed him for lunch,
An' Sammy MacNabbit fell kilt over head,
An' just for a while it was feart he was dead.

It's not a good thing to step on your meal
While playing the bagpipes an' dancin' a reel.
An' it's not very pleasant at all I suppose,
With a great haggis sandwich stuck well up your nose,
An' to judge by his screams, I very much doubt
That the pleasure improved as the stuff was scraped out.
So Sam doesna sing on the roof any more
An' considers it wiser to stay on the floor.

An' is he still singing? - och aye so he is,
He's the top o' the charts in the radio biz,
A star of the air and for your information
He's a disc jockey noo at a radio station,
Sings along to the music as only he can
An' he's known to the world as Sing-along-Sam.

An' he sings o' the heather, he sings o' the glen.
O' bonnie wee lassies an' brave Scottish men.
O' the moors an' the lochs, an' yon bonnie braes,
O' the mists, o' the highlands an' Scotland the brave
He'll sing o' the bluebells that blossom galore,
But he willna eat haggis for lunch any more.

The Dancer

He stood beside the fireplace
in studied nonchalance,
to hide the envy in his face
and wished that he could dance.

Then suddenly, as though the wish
had triggered off the notion,
he joined the dancers on the floor
in obvious emotion.

He leapt a ballet dancers leap,
gyrated like a top,
danced on urgent, frenzied feet,
a sort of wild gavotte.

He rocked around the crowded room,
he rolled along the hall.
He danced without a helping tune
and without grace at all.

He did not dance with pleasure,
nor did he seem to tire
and as he danced outside we saw
his trousers were on fire.

Dare-Devil George

The burning desire
Of dare-devil George,
Was to walk a high wire
Stretched over a gorge.

Walking on wire,
Is probably rare,
Most don't aspire
To strolls in the air,
But George was a man
Always game for a thrill,
Said, "I must and I can
And I jolly well will".

So dare-devil George,
Went off with pride,
To pick out a gorge
And he jolly well tried.

Now George was quite fat
And the wire was quite thin.
Rounded, not flat,
Without purchase for him.
His spirit said, "yes"
But his body screamed, "NO"
And it was in distress
That he fell down below.

Yet George's endeavour,
we cannot deride,
It's still very clever
To walk when you've died,
For though he has gone,
He's accomplished his mission,
As the world's number one
High wire apparition.

Party Piece

The lady in the bright cerise,
stood to do her party piece
and stuffed a shrinking violin,
underneath her double chin.

She gripped it tightly by the throat
as though to strangle every note,
while frenzied bow did dreadful things
to wildly trembling, untuned strings.

The shrill cacophony of sound,
wilted pot plants stood around,
demoralised the dog and cat
who fled the scene in seconds flat.

Notes intended pure and sweet,
fell mauled and mangled at her feet,
yet callously she fiddled on
until the song was dead and gone.

When she had lain aside her bow,
we all stood with heads bowed low,
in memory of that sweet refrain
that had been so foully slain.

Water Music

A tale to fill you with aversion
About this very slobbery person
Who, though music sometimes bored her,
Played rather well on her recorder.

But music formed by her own hands
Excited her salivary glands
And so she'd never made a hit,
Due to her excessive spit.

'Fountains of Rome', a classic piece,
She'd spray and slobber through with ease,
And sometimes too, if asked to choose it,
She'd splash through 'Handel's Water Music'.

And yet one day to her surprise,
She won a special music prize,
And this, presented by a wet young fella,
Was fittingly, a large umbrella,

Rock and roll was her undoing
And set her on a path to ruin.
She joined a red hot rocking group
To play a real cool rocking flute.

Now rocking flutes won't play in tune
When fitted with a large spittoon,
And sounds of slurp and bubbles blowing,
Added to saliva flowing.

That rocking flute though really cool,
Increased ten fold her copious drool,
While substitution of a whistle
Produced a further flood of spittle.

An upbeat version of 'Swan Lake'
Proved to be her last mistake,
For though it topped the charts world-wide
It brought about the final tide.

It surely was a mystery weird,
Just how and when she disappeared.
It's logical to think she drowned
But no one knows, she's not been found.