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| The Ballad of
East Shields Once East Shields rose, Atlantis-like, across the Firth of Tyne; once East Shields posed as Purgatory in days of auld lang syne; once East Shields was the monastery where books began to sprig; once East Shields was the forestry of learning: root to twig. And like the Isle of May she was, that Avalon of the Forth; and cruciform her lighthouse shone, a lantern to this north; and then the Viking raids began, and Lindisfarne was sacked; and then the Prior of East Shields sought out a satanic pact. Within this nest of learning lay a cuckoo's egg of sin: the sort of vol. where Lucifer has left the rude bits in. This Prior thought he'd save the rest so, gingerly, he supped, at a well of knowledge so defiled the isle became corrupt. The monks began to sneer a lot and hang aroond the Toon; and get in fights on Friday nights, and let their habits doon. And sometimes, to good folks' disgust, they'd heize their habits up, and teach some lass against some wall the perfect tense of 'shtup'. And then the prayers of complaint assailed Saint Cuthbert's ears; within his tomb aald Cuddie shed some holy water tears, attached to them his own wee prayer, marked that 'priority', and asked for East Shields to be sunk beneath a righteous sea. |
Au secours! Back to the dry dry land of Projects. Like to swim a little further out? Aim for these rocks. |
