So said Henry Huxley,
The seventh Duke of Duck,
Whose home was on a farmyard,
All covered with sheep-muck.

The Huxleys weren’t a rich family,
No regal blood to loud proclaim,
Nor stately home to call their own,
But cheerful all the same.

So Henry gave his bloated speech,
To all upon the farm:
The cows, the chickens and their eggs,
He said: “Beware the sky’s alarm

“For red sky in the evening,
Is like thunder in the day.
It is an omen of your doom,
So listen clear to all I say.”

His hair, all coloured pink and blue,
Was spiked up tall with gel,
And as he spoke, it grew and grew,
How high - no one could tell!

A sheep arrived, walked up the drive,
And said then unto all,
“I see the doom, yes, feel the gloom”,
He then jumped o’er the farmyard wall.

Suddenly from country lane,
A hundred sheep they bleating came,
And jumped as well across the wall,
All following the same.

It looked so strange, yet Henry knew,
He had no cause for fear.
“The gloom they dread is in their head”,
He poked his finger in his ear.

From the farmhouse came a noise
As Farmer Clegg came out to work,
And said aloud to Huxley then,
“You lousy little Turk:

“You stand around the yard for hours,
And sleep upon my bails of hay.
I’ll crack your head like chicken’s egg,
I promise you, one day.”

Henry Huxley smiled at him,
And said: “I differ to beg:
This farm is mine, my family’s,
Not yours, oh Farmer Clegg.”

He looked like he would fast attack
The farmer with a sharp pitchfork,
But outlawed as was cold murder,
Instead he fought with vicious talk:

“You nasty man, so horrible,
You really are a smelly pig.”
His face was pink with morbid rage,
And from a flask he took a swig.

“You dirty rotten flea-bag,
You smelly pair of pants.
When you are dead we shall not mourn:
We’ll feed you to the ants!”

Farmer Clegg was knocked hard back.
He thought himself a man quite tough,
But words so strong, like demon’s song,
He wailed: “Enough! Enough!”

Then he ran from that there farm,
And made his home elsewhere,
So Henry Huxley’s life went on,
With no work and no care.

Years later, old Henry did die,
The seventh Duke of Duck,
And all the animals had joined,
To grieve poor Henry’s awful luck,

For he’d been struck by lightning bright,
That shot like glass out from the sky,
Then hit him squarely on the head:
He’d exploded without a cry.

“What a way to die”, they’d said,
“Yes what a way your life to end,
But we don’t care that much really,
For he was not our friend.

“We hated him, it must be told,
He lazed around all day in bed.
The dreams we knew at last came true
That day when lightning struck his head.”


© 2001 Matt Everett