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| James McIntyre |
| (1827-1906 - Poet) |
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FirstFoot didn't think it was
possible. But Scotland produced another poet whose work is so execrably
bad, that it rivals that of our good friend . Try this for starters:
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Ode On the Mammoth Cheese
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(weight over seven thousand pounds)
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We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
All gaily
dressed soon you'll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.
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And so on ….. unbelievably,
it gets worse. Try this utterly awful doggerel:
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We'rt thou suspended
from balloon,
You'd cast a shade even at noon,
Folk would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.
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McIntyre
was born in Forres, but buggered off to Canada at the age of 14.
The Canadians claim him as their worst poet, but FirstFoot thinks
we'll just have him back. After all, we have a reputation for bad
poetry to maintain.
His life appears to have been
respectable but unremarkable. He trained as an undertaker and went
into business on his own. First as an undertaker, he then opened
a furniture factory in Ingersoll, Ontario. Ingersoll was dairy country
and cheese making one of it's primary industries.
This seems to be the explanation
for the inspirational poetry which made him famous. He decided to
write poems about cheese.
Cheese, or cheese poetry. Fantastic.
If you are going to make a career out of writing crap poetry, then
write it about something completely bizarre like cheese.
Married three times, McIntyre
was a well kent face in Ingersoll, and his death at the ripe old
age of 79, was the subject of a fulsome obituary in the Ingersoll
press.
So, as FirstFoot's tribute,
how about this?
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Lines Read At A Dairymen's
Supper |
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It almost now seems all in vain
For to expect high price for grain,
Wheat is grown on Egyptian soil
On the banks of mighty Nile.
And where the Ganges it doth flow,
In India fine wheat doth grow,
And price of labor is so cheap
That it they can successful reap.
Then let the farmers justly prize
The cows for land they fertilize,
And let us all with songs and glees
Invoke success into the cheese.
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Pure and utter genius. Eat yer
heart oot Bill McGonagall
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