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The Mad Mountaineer
(Eulalia’s Lament)
-by Joseph "Spungy" Freakinswad-
Late one night in
early March, I found that I was feeling parch’d
And popped into the King’s Stores for a look
Flannigan was there that night, looking rather erudite
"Reading" from a dark and foamy "book"
With a saucy smile, the barmaid did appear
Then the luscious lass drew three more pints of beer
For ourselves and Gunter Gruntz the Mountaineer
After sev’ral
mugs of ale, the ambience was getting stale
Worse, the girls were few and far between
Three abreast on Widegate Street, we sang of maidens soft and sweet
And Gruntz was clearly feeling rather keen
He was brimming with high spirits and good cheer
And his thoughts they were lasciviously clear
That slightly mad and somewhat pungent Mountaineer
Sing!
We three lads on the prowl, using means fair and foul
To ensure that we howl when we must
We are men, after all, bound to answer the call
The loin-burning siren song of lust
We’ve got to get some or go bust!
Next into The Horn
of Plenty, seeking damsels under twenty
Schnapps in measures liberal was poured
Down our throats the liquor went, and Gruntz was plainly getting bent
He threatened to unsheath his manly sword
His weaponry of woo, his fiery spear
Then he refrained, thank God, from whipping out his gear
That spectacularly stinky Mountaineer
Sing!
We three chaps on a spree, loose of foot and fancy-free
Pleased as punch when we see there’s a chance
We have needs that can’t wait, so we don’t hesitate
To partake in the horizontal dance
Who’s got the patience for romance?
So we beat a quick
retreat down White’s Row and Commercial Street
And Flannigan another pub did spy
Screaming "Late night Ploughman’s Luncheon!," Gruntz pulled
out his trouser truncheon
Out The Brit’s front door we all did fly
I believe the term is "tossed out on your ear"
Despite the pain, it was the high point of my year
Oh, that aromatic, mad, mad Mountaineer
Sing!
We three kings on a tear, eyeing ankles quite bare
And we don’t really care about rumours
We’re not silent, cloister’d monks; we’re incorrigible
drunks
Tired of soothing those womanly humours
We just want access to their bloomers
Last call at The Princess
Alice, drinking from a frothy chalice
Then we traveled Wentworth to the east
From its burrow Gruntz did take his venomous pajama snake
The pleasure python thusly was released
I should have realized that there was something queer
For Gunter Gruntz was staring strangely at my rear
I grew frightened of the mad, mad Mountaineer
The reeking madman
came toward me thinking he would climb aboard me
Yodeling like never you have heard
Bleating like a mountain goat, grunting like a lovelorn stoat
Intentions clear without a single word
I was frozen by his gaze, his loathsome leer
Then a whinny in the darkness we did hear
And I was jilted by that mad, mad Mountaineer
Sing!
We three sots locked in gaol, I’m inspired by my pail
But my memory might fail, for it’s sparse
One thing fixed in my mind is the firm equine hind
That brought an end to this Gruntzian farce
What a splendid, hairy, massive horse’s arse!
… JSF, 1857
...
that mad, mad mountaineer
--"Scholarship" by Flyboy
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