Mahon pronounced Ma-hon, with soft a.
If you get that far, Uist is pronounced You-ist
"To old Port Mahon came sad news of disaster",
So sang Julie Felix, back 'bout '63,
We met in a folk club, and I never asked her
If she'd drop her drawers for a fool such as me.
She sang songs by Guthrie and Dylan and Seeger,
She sang of the pity to die an old maid,
And many a man in the audience was eager
This thing to forestall by her proffering aid.
This song, Port Mahon, well the first line I've stolen,
For that's the sum total remembered by me,
But 'twasn't 'bout Gracie and bella a-rollin'
In roistering rollicks upon the salt sea.
* * *
In old Port Mahon lies the sloop Maid of Flanders,
She's broad in the beam and she's long in the tooth.
And mariners mutter of her many slanders,
But fellas, this story is nearly the truth.
Once laden with cargo of tin cans and mortar,
The captain announced, ere they ventured abroad:
"I'm bringing along on this voyage my daughter."
Though 'twas evil luck to have women aboard.
"And not only she, but my niece Arabella,"
(The captain continued,) "Both innocent maids,
And if I should spot e'en one glance from a fella
At them, with a thrashing that man will be paid."
They set sail for Salzburg on Sunday at sunrise,
The sails were unfurled, and the anchor was weighed.
"About thirty pounds, sir," the ship's number one cries,
And with fair wind and tide rapid progress was made.
I will not tell here of the schemes and the ruses
That every man jack used to peek at a Jill,
Except that the most successful of uses
Was made by The carpenter, Chips, with his drill.
And thence in the dog watch, while young Arabella,
And Grace, in their cabin, were slowly undressing,
Through a hole in the wall oft the eye of some fella
Would gaze most enthralled and give Chippie his blessing.
* * *
To old Port Mahon came sad news of disaster,
Concerning our vessel sore tossed on the tide,
A sudden tornado saw fit to dismast 'er,
Which swept, too, her master clean over the side.
The old Maid of Flanders, dismasted, dismastered
ploughed on till the storm was replaced by the sun.
Out came the girls crying: "We're rid of that bastard,
It's time now my lads for to have us some fun."
It's surely no stretch of the least 'magination
To guess not much work was performed on that day,
Instead there was masses of grand fornication,
Before once again the tub got under way.
The main mast now missing, the mizzen was mainly
The means of propulsionbut such was the play
On the deck,of those tarts roaming naked that vainly
The steersman and lookout's gaze tried not to stray.
So as they were passing the straits of Gibraltar,
(A difficult task, as the doctors explain,
The passage of such a large mass may well alter
The shape of one's colon, andgive massive pain.
)
Now don't let us quibble o'er things geographic,
The name of that strait merely served as a joke,
It seems 'twas a climate zone far from seraphic,
Whereat our old vessel collided and broke.
Her passage had led to the northeast Atlantic,
When smashed into shards by that terrible squall.
For those geographically over-pedantic
It's name is North Uist, or maybe Rockall.
The girls with libidinous appetites straining,
Subjected those seamen to multiple rape,
And seeing no sign of their wantonness waning,
Most every man-jack made a plan to escape.
Remember the cargo of tin cans and mortar?
'Twas now strewn haphazardly over the sand,
With much luck and patience they made up a sort o'
A raft which they launched in the search now for land.
(Please note: if this story were not wholly factual,
I'd plagiarise here as i did once before,
That grabbing some soap they all made satisfactual
Arrival on Scotland's windswept western shore.)
And did they eventually find a safe landing?
Well, frankly, I know not, and nor do I care.
But there on their islet our harlots are standing,
Considering who they might lure to their lair.
But men, this far north near the Greenwich meridian,
Are rare - not one answered their frantic appeals.
They turned their attention to creatures amphibian,
'Bella loved dolphins and Gracie loved seals.
* * *
In Scotland they've legends of Silkie or seal-men,
Who rise from the sea to have rolls on the turf,
With fair local lassies, to show them they're real men,
And later, with offspring, return to the surf.
You may think this writer is twisted and morbid,
The tale pornographic and thoroughly base,
But if you like seals, girls, please don't think it sordid,
The creatures are surely descended from Grace.
Dear reader if you be a gal or a fella,
And swimming with dolphins is what turns you on,
They sprang from the womb of our dear Arabella,
When wrecked on the voyage from old Port mahon.
So open a drink dears, and guzzle and puzzle
Your brains to consider what this really means:
The buzz from a nuzzle of fine fuzzy muzzles,
Don't mean you're a pervert, it's all in your genes.
That's 25 stanzas, (quatrains, anapestic,)
To give you what's surely the worst of the crop.
I'm now being nagged to do labours domestic,
Without such demandsI'd not come to a stop.