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Saturday, April 09, 2005
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What follows... is UD’s slightly belated homage to Tartan Day -- her own version of the great Scottish ballad, Henry Martin, whose words and tune may be found here. WEITZMAN MARTIN There was a professor in north New England In north New England lived he, And such was his love of the stallion’s manure, manure, manure, That he turned robber all through the countrie. “My name, I’ll attest it, is Weitzman Martin; I’d counsel you keep it in mind. If you have a steed and I’m driving nearby, nearby, nearby, You would do well to watch its behind.” For excrete was golden to Weitzman Martin, And every spring evening he’d flit Through the redolent acres along Lane’s Farm Way, Lane’s Farm Way, Lane’s Farm Way, And place in his pickup the choicest horseshit. Phil Casey, a farmer, had now had enough, And determined to set him a trap. He penned Weitzman’s pickup and called the police, the police, the police, And told him forthwith to return all the crap. “I’ll offer good money if you’ll let me go,” The bold Weitzman Martin did say. But Casey was anger'd and wouldn’t relent, relent, relent. And now there’s a trial on the ninth day of May. O Harvard is crimson and Gloucester is red. How could such a thing have occurred? A grand full professor on top of his game, his game, his game, Brought low by the love of an animal’s turd. |