The Tragick and Frightful Poeme of thee Goose de Berrsinou.

A Tale Rich in Horror and Unease
Yonder three bridges o’ gooseberry cairn,
Abides that goose that forr gooseberries yearns

And cast all around him, in ranks all unserried,
lie the whitening bones of souls long unburied,

For ‘berry goose home is cold as is the tomb,
Where ice breaketh the axe of the gooseberry gnome,

The wild dancing wind that cuts like a knife,
as it skirls round the skirts of the goose’s poor wife,

The creature unfurled from his wintery lair,
And sniffed to the gale for that gooseberry air,

He lifts his cruel beak, so wicked and keen,
black eyes blazing with greed as he scents that sweet green,

With a hiss and flap that rends the air black,
He screams to the goose wife to go fetch the sack,

His helpmeet so haggard his satchel doth bring,
with a screech and a curse he takes to the wing,

In his wake through the aether the clouds fail and part,
And distant fruit tremble and awake with a start,

On through the skies that are marbled with grey,
Screams the dread goose in pursuit of his prey,

His honk on the still of the sky is a blight,
His wing sullies dour on day’s longing for light,

Some savage distemper the very grasses doth blast,
The scant verdure withers where e’er the grim shadow is cast,

The other bird folk flee aghast from this beast,
For he murders his kinsfolk on wing ‘fore his feast,

A feathered maelstrom of sin, of rapine and slaughter,
He deflowered, devoured, his own fledgling daughter,

This happening now a fond notion long past,
The memory urges the goose break his fast,

The urge grows strong, his bleak hooded eyes,
searching, searching, through the wintry skies,

Now far in the distance, the dark land abates,
A fair verdant world is drawn by the fates,

The beast plunges down through clouds rent asunder,
hellbent on mayhem, and gooseberry plunder,

The emerging vista, so bountiful green,
So quiet unsuspecting gooseberry obscene,

The frond bedecked palm, pale fragrant mimosa,
unaware that the doom laden goose yet draws ever closer,

From out of his bill comes a poisonous steam,
Those webbed feet of ill from some nightmarish dream,

hark! through the grass two children come skipping,
little dreaming in moments they’re in for a ripping.

The sedge that they play in, one moment so still,
Now roiling dark goose mass in chaos brings ill,

A dark bloody outrage, a sanguinary scene,
on the rags of their clothing he wipes his bill clean,

But human lamb flesh though sweet, is not sought,
And gooseberry green to be stolen not bought,

For this is but murder most foul, a mere instinct to slay,
the berry’s the thing! and death’s an entree,

Yet now once more again he puts to the wing,
A fever, his mind, the sweet gooseberry sings,

Scant distance hence, a poor yeoman toils hard,
to nurture and husband his gooseberry orchard,

A waft of the air and the goose has this scent,
With a gooseberry fervor the fiend is hell bent!!

The farmer rests from his labours and surveys with pleasure,
the well tended bushes and their sweet globular treasure,

Now soon comes the doom, alas and all woe,
Inexorable terror and gooseberry foe,

All the good gooseberryman’s travails shall soon be as naught,
as the gooseberry goose prepares for the final onslaught,

Some yards still away the farmer heard a great thump,
As he turned his gaze round in his throat stuck a lump,

Struck by horror, the farmer’s bones turned to water,
is this the end? no more to see his poor wife and daughter?

He picked up a goose-fork as goose-fiend approached,
A vain and hapless effort as death near encroached,

With his terrible eyes on the gooseberry patch,
the creature rolled forward with dreadful despatch,

Those webbed feet of hades crash down like the thunder,
A swish of his beak and the fork flies asunder,

The farmer begged mercy! But the goose will not be stayed,
on the cusp of success in his gooseberry raid,

As the scythe beak is raised on the farmers cold fear,
The farmer can screams from his family hear,

Stricken with terror, the yeoman sought an escape,
then he espied a tall clumsy fellow in a badly made cape,

As this fellow bumbles over the goose is distracted,
By the farmers lunch the man seems attracted,

Now who is this other fellow who has strangely appeared?
with half mast green pantaloons and a stubbly beard?

In his hand is a bottle and his manner quite drunk,
From some hand stones strike him with a painful ‘thunk!’

“Ho what h’gooseberries? I don’t h’see any h’gooseberries!” cries a
voice oh so risible,
when the fact of the matter is little else is visible,

Two more clowns appeared behind goose oh so cruel,
They suggest that they’ll move him away with their tools,

An old man in brown trousers, a turkey in tweeds,
all babbling and shouting amongst the tall weeds,

The gangly man reaches the plowmans with ease,
And thusly announces ‘I thought there’d be cheese!’

But one of his laces has somehow worked loose,
a stumble, a cry, and he lands on the goose!

A terrible noise, a honk and a clatter,
Yet cloaked gentleman cannot tell what’s the matter,

Enmeshed in the cape, the goose is half strangled,
the others rush over and soon all are entangled,

Cheese in his hand the buffoon somehow emerges,
But straight away into the farmer now surges,

Somehow from the clutches of Buckle the farmer breaks free,
but fleeing in haste into the goose crashes he!

Now Buckland is blowing his trombone with force,
That monstrous goose becomes a tool and a horse,

The Circus De Bonus lives on in these fools,
“eh? what?” “frole!” “uh huh huh huh with our tools!”

The goose may be buckled but saved are not fruits,
For Buckland is wearing some awfullly big boots,

And the bad combination, whilst searching for snatch,
has wrought merry hell on the gooseberry patch,

The bald one seems prescient of the miserable caper,
Apparently he read it in tomorrows dewspaper!!

The farmer surveys all this wretched business, then crumples and sobs,
at which the poor fellow’s trousers, the turkey deftly then robs,

“Really!!” says Turkey, and turns not to see,
Before filling a bowl of gooseberries for tea,

To make matters worse, buckled goose be now merry,
having stumbled across the Comte’s crate of cheap sherry,

The trouserless farmer the tool-horse doth spy,
In sherry struck fervour its luck it doth try,

In the midst of it’s grappling, buckle once more blows his horn,
the once-was-goose becomes now a prawn!

‘Frole!’ cries the bald Simon ‘A h’miracle odd,
‘now he’s prawn again, h’I h’believe h’I’ve found Cod!’

“Ho by god” cries the farmer,”you’ll drive be deranged!”
then his simple appearance starts to shimmer and change,

Cloak, hair and pincers, in turn all appear,
It’s Bikle all right, is he pleased to be here?

Not bloody likely, to escape from this joke,
he’d fled to this farm and a labourer’s yoke,

One cries ‘Ho, what’s wrong Bikle?’ amongst other sounds,
As about the poor fellow the fools gather round,

His prize gooseberies ruined, of his trousers relieved,
no wonder our old friend is looking aggrieved,

Now Buckland comes forward from out of the crowd,
With a consoling air he announces quite loud:

“What’s wrong Bikle I thought you’d be pleased!”
At which the erstwhile farmer goes weak at the knees,

“Ho by lord!” Bikle cries and continues by screaming
“Wake be up someone I bust just be dreaming!!”

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Published in: on September 8, 2010 at 10:22 am  Leave a Comment  

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