A Viking lad went on the loose,
His name being Erik the Puce,
He built him a boat,
And set it afloat,
And attempted a course to deduce.
His skill with things geometricular,
And reasonings trig'nometricular
Were woefully poor,
He could find him no shore,
Nor even his organs testicular.

One night, by the light of the moon,
Our Erik let fly a harpoon,
Which caught in the tail
Of a monstrous great whale,
Which towed him to some still lagoon.

Now this weren't no tropical isle,
But a cold icy wilderness, vile.
To this he lay claim,
Joined the real estate game,
And homeward set forth in a while.

Ignoring, of course, navigation,
He sat down in great cogitation.
What tale could he tell,
This ice sheet to sell
Togullible folk of his nation.

One rare, rain-free morn the sun's rays
Broke through, and he spied through the haze,
A wondrous sighting
Of drunken men fighting,
In old Ireland's fair verdant braes.

Allowing no time to elapse,
He took him some Polaroid snaps,
Of those pleasant scenes,
And lovely colleens,
Then yelled to his crew, "Let's go, chaps."

And with these temptations pictorial,
He went into trade realtorial,
And swore Greenland's clime
Was as truly sublime
As regions damn near equatorial.

That was in an age long gone by,
But still you'll find charlatans try,
To swindle and cheat,
With lies and deceit,
'Cos cameras and salesmen all lie.

Now if you've learned from that there tune,
Send dollars, pounds, euros, doubloons,
To Ogg Astronaut-
ics, there's land to be bought,
From my country estate on the moon.

More historical inaccuracies.

>main list.

Sunday, October 21, 2007