MacLass
It was a night just like tonight,
the sea was calm and raging,
the sun was shining, warm and bright,
rain hadn't stopped in ages.
A lass as gentle as a beam
of moonlight, dark and prickly,
awoke from a spooky dream,
palms wet, heart beating quickly.
She ventured out for a walk,
took in the midnight vistas,
and in the middle of the bog
she met Three Wayward Sisters.
They said ‘Good morrow, Madame!
A word, just so you know:
you are about to become
the starlet of this show.
The throne is yours, you will be King,
the populace will cheer.
Just one condition: you must drink
a whole jug of beer.
You'll only get a single try
so find a brew that counts,
but you can kiss your dream goodbye
if you request more rounds.’
With peaks to climb and seas to cross,
the fairest of lasses
forever left these Blackness shores
and made her way to Blackness.
She wandered there for a week
as summers passed and autumns.
She tasted every malt and wheat
wherever up went bottoms.
Some beers tasted of delight,
some brought her joy and pleasure
but nothing was exactly right
to fit the royal measure.
One foggy day the lass got lost
and then, when she got found,
a pub arose just across
with Blackness all around.
It was as high as it was tall,
its middle in its centre.
There was a door inside a wall
that people used to enter.
She asked the barman for advice,
she tried some ales and stouts
and said she'd like a proper size
without further doubts.
The jug was empty. Future King
looked at her golden crown.
She poured herself another drink
and swallowed it down.
You'll find her still, she's often here
happy, sad or quiet.
You'll say, ‘The kingdom was so near!’
and she will not deny it.
You'll add, ‘That sounds like a lot
of brews that one could own.’
She'll say, ‘I've got the Lobster Pot.
Why would I want a throne?’