They came in their droves across plains full of gorse,
seeking refuge in the belly of an old wooden horse.
Pavlov’s dogs, the curate’s egg, and Marley’s ghost,
all banished for eternity to a forgotten outpost.
The ploughman laments “O wad some Power the giftie gie us,
if only they’d allow the newborn bairns tae see us.”
And a painting in an attic crumbles then turns to dust,
Proof if proof be needed, big G’s achieved the worst.
A chant from vox populi chills right through to the bones,
“Who ARE The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and the Rolling Stones?”
And in the distance, way beyond the forty-year-old wall,
Don McLean croons soulfully to an empty concert hall.
“A long, long, time ago …”