This piece was inspired by an invite to celebrate a Robert Burns night gathering a few weeks ago. Each invitee was required to bring a poem to celebrate the noble Bobby Burns. And so my humble doggerel below. The reader may want to self inform on the meaning of Athol Brose by the end of this. No worry, an explanation will follow.
Cold Sores on an Aging Rump
by George Brose
Composed for a Bobby Burns Gatherin’ February 4, 2023
The day was cold and full of rage when I hit the road on what seemed a tune up, a final phase .
Butterflies and grizzly bears slept in winter beds warm and dreaming of coming days.
But no, myself I had to prove what I already knew would be an agonizing test, my bum would freeze.
Off went the sweatshirt at the end of mile three,
And soon thereafter off came the tee.
By lap two I was peeling off the tights and feeling a warmth that promised I’d soon be to Elysian heights.
But, ‘twas not to be as I failed once more to spy that strip of hidden ice in shadow betrayed by beer-
glazed eyes.
Soon 'twas I a flyin' through the air not toward yon finish line but rather bleak despair
Yes, and so to land on matted hair.
Behold a scalp wound was all did wrought as I broke my fall with gluteus caught
In yon twisted wire fence,
The barbs of which were ne’r so dull as Michael Pence.
My arse was gouged by fiendish wire
And misfortune imbued by muck and mire.
My pager smashed by wanton fall and so for help I could not call.
Carried on by pride, the fool, soon to rue that decision, uncool,
Which came from bum rather than brain.
As time wore on my arse knew pain.
A breeding ground grown fetid with germs and maggots, worms and snot
Wracked by pain, relenting not
A twitch from the added strain
Of picking up the pace,
Headwind hard burnished my face.
With storm a brewing, knowing to stop was nothing doing.
Arrived to ER, butt bedraggled, that freaking fence was still entangled.
‘Tis a royal screwing near at hand.
But not of me, just my medical plan.
As multiple docs would each consign a consulting quack to check my spine
To recommend a test not yet invented
So when I’m billed, I’ll be indebted.
And so I rest these weary bones ‘neath bended willows scarfin' scones
Reading Burns and barfing Haggis
Jawing with runners, we’ll feed the maggots.
Think you that I am weak, well 'nigh morose ?
Not true, I know what means a dose,
Of intervals, fartleks, snowy roads (Sigh!)
Now but a laddie a stayin’ close
Who dreams of drinking Athol Brose*
*Athol Brose , a traditional Scottish drink made of wild honey, scotch, cream, and the elixir of water poured off soaking raw oats.
Athol Brose recipe from The Louisville Courier Journal, 1906
What an awesome Burns parody:
But if one were prone to believe the tale,
One would never approach the swale,
Hence one would never enjoy the thrill
Of simply running up a hill.
Will "Shakeschnier"
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