Judith Proctor wrote:
This one is rather off-topic, but I thought the few Morgan fans here
might
appreciate it. Actually, given how bleak it is, I'm not sure if
appreciate
isreally the right word.
So taken was I by Judith Proctor's Lament for Morgan's dead sheep, that I have written a more light hearted version in response. Which goes like this:
MORGAN'S PIES
There are hills and farms in England, In Scotland, Ireland, Wales, And cholesterol levels rising, As pies come to the vales.
CHORUS For the cook house stoves are burning, And the black smoke fills the skies, And the weight will never leave me, And the memory of your pies.
Oh, Morgan, son of Owen, Will your pies never be free, They once were baked in Blainau, Now feed your pies to me.
I see you in each farmer, Who tends to eat your fare, Your face haunts every image, Just like a big fat Mare.
The diet brings no respite, For the pounds they won't move on, How many more will join them, Before these pies are gone?
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