Mac Caulley was a farmer-O
Living off the shores of Badachro
His fields were sown like tartan-O
The crops crisscrossed in every row.
The evening pulled him to the coast
Where on his pipes he’d sound a toast
To all of those he loved the most
A declaration, but n’er a boast.
Not all were happy with this gam
Those said he shaved with razor clams
That thistle leaves had spiked his dram
While hives of bees, lived in his tam.
He pushed aside the verbal stones
and squeezed the belly, to a moan
A sound akin to grizzly groans
That shaped itself to Highland tones
Sheep wagged wooly heads, to and fro
Fish danced through water, far below
A Stag waved antlers, at his doe
Through rowan trees, the music flowed
Mothers tucked tired children into bed
Fathers sleepily nodded, weary heads
Sleep wrapped itself in myriad threads
About their minds, like pretzel breads.
Mac Caulley set his pipes aside
His feet were damp from shifting tides
He headed homeward, with quick strides
To his doorway lit…by dancing eyes