I knew of a man named Rockall,
He stood tall, large, bald and alone.
Surrounded by a very wet garden,
That everyone knew as The Atlantic.
He used to birdwatch, but soon gave that up,
As he got sick of always seeing seagulls.
Seaweed clothed him around his waistline,
As he kept a few pets of periwinkles and clams.
His nearest neighbours were Scotsmen and those of Ulster,
Yet they only claimed him as their friend,
in hopes of building oilfields,
And of securing fishing rights on his property.
Very rarely does he get visitors,
Almost as if he were the moon,
Maybe it is his stormy aura,
Or his inhospitable presence.
Robert Elliott
Image Credit: © Copyright Andy Strangeway and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.
