The Tale of Malcolm McPherson

Mr Malcolm McPherson

Was a very strange looking person

Whom, it is has been remarked,

When faced with a stray hound

It was found

That it was ‘he’ that barked.
He walked with a strange gate

Even though it was heavy

And, probably, stolen;

He almost drowned one day

Trying to carry it

Across a river that was deep and swollen.
His outlook on life

Was to eat with a knife

Except for Wednesdays

When he didn’t eat at all;

And he only ate fish

From an edible dish

But, desisted to eat

If a bone he did meet

And he’d just eat the dish

(Which he’d always say was ‘delish!’).
Malcolm McPherson

Was such a peculiar person

That he wore socks ‘over’ his shoes

He thought socks were demeaning

And his shoes he protected

“They’ll never need cleaning!”

And no scuffs were thereby detected

But, socks he got through by the score.

He was laughed at by some

To which he acted dumb

And just wore brighter socks all the more –

And mismatched they were;

So the people did concur

That Malcolm was as mad as a latter day hatter

Or, for that matter,

A hare.
But, Malcolm, he took no notice of the people who’d stare

And just imagined them walking about in their underwear

At which he’d laugh and then he’d bellow:

“Hello, Mrs. Smith!”

(If it were she)

“I see you love the colour yellow!”

And she did blush

For the only things yellow that she wore

Was the sort of things

You kept hush hush

And yet, Malcolm McPherson

Seemed to know what people wore

Under their clothing

Which was another

Reason for people’s fear and loathing.

So, eventually, Malcolm McPherson

Left town with a bag

And little else upon his person

Apart from that gate

And a loaf he did blag

From the lady in the baker’s

Whose name it was Kate.

And she passed him the loaf,

And he said “Thanks, dear;

Is it so hot in the bakers

That you’ve no underwear?”

She also blushed

And stammered “Goodbye.”

Then went home feeling dizzy

And the need for to cry.

But, Malcolm just smiled

And went on his way

Now imagining the people

Au naturel, as they say.

And never again was seen Malcolm’s face

In the town where he’d lived in a sort of disgrace;

And the people forgot him

And buried his name

But, when he had left

The town was never the same:

It became all lacklustre

And placid and faint

Without the one character who just wasn’t a saint.
The town faded away

In a year and a day

And where it once was

No one can say.

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