The Tale Of Enid McKay

This is the story of Enid McKay

Who cycled the Alps and was killed by a fly

She burned with desire for adventures afar

Her savings were stored in a marmalade jar

On the uppermost shelf at the side of her bed

Where her favourite fantasies ran through her head

Of leaving the pots and the pans in the sink

And telling her husband to make his own drink

And pedalling off down the road with a fury

To seek ancient ruins,  and treasures and glory

After seven long years and the jar overflowing

And the seeds of excitement were sprouting and growing

She caught up the money and made the long hike

To the neighbouring village where she purchased her bike

The Schwinn was a vision, enamel and chrome

And Enid felt sure,  she would never go home

With only a backpack and ne’er a goodbye

To the saddle she leapt and away she did fly

She rode for a day but it soon became clear

No adventure was there to be found around here

So she hopped on a bus and she paid with a note 

Shouting “take me to Dover,  I’ll get on a boat”

Alas!  for poor Enid,  the voyage was rough

Of travels by boat she’d quite had enough

So she changed to a train and just had the fare

To get to the Alps for some fresh mountain air

She got back on her bike but was stopped at the border

Where the guards then demanded,  her papers in order

She spoke of her dream,  they told her the way

And she cycled like mad for the rest of the day

Now,  it’s quite clear to us that the Alps are quite hilly

And traversing by bike is incredibly silly

But Enid rode on to the top of a ridge

It was almost full sunset,  the air full of midge

Her pedals were flying the wind rushing past

She took a deep breath which was sadly her last

The fly hurtled in at the speed of a bullet

Down her oesophagus,  into her gullet

Choking and coughing she turned off the track

Towards the cliff edge,  there was no going back

All turned to slow motion as if in a dream

And, suspended in space,  she fell with a scream

Poor Enid was lost on this magnificent trip

And all that they found was her bicycle clip.

The moral is one for our readers to note

Just cycle round England, don’t get on a boat

And it’s all very well saving cash for your schemes

But,  as Enid has shown,  some are better as dreams.



About Marie

An eccentric & quirky artist and writer who fills her time between fantasy roleplaying sessions with painting, writing and playing her guitar (rather badly). Usually to be found with paint-stained fingers surrounded by books and tubes of acrylic paint.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s