Percival the prig by Grant Harbison

Prissy Percival pranced through Paris

Wearing tweeds that came from Harris

But Percival thought this was cool

Wearing a suit made of jagged wool

And the whole of his wardrobe consists

Of cloth that was meant for masochists

But that’s what appealed to his taste

All of his life he’s been strait-laced

It’s a life that’s been dreary and dull

Growing up on the Isle of Mull

Percy has never seen it that way

And always finds things to fill up his day

He’s never known a girl nor ever had a wife

And he’s been on his own most of his life

But that’s been something he never has missed

For the poor little fellow has never been kissed

He’s never ever gambled and he certainly doesn’t smoke

Folks on the island think he’s a joke

Prim and proper he still remains merry

And will never drink more than two glasses of sherry

Then one day he did a little dance

When he realised he’d saved enough money for France

So off to Paris he went

And all of his wanderings he deemed time well spent

He had a spring in his step and a tuneful whistle

This peculiar wee man from the land of the thistle

He whopped with joy at the splendour of the city

But it wasn’t hard to please this sad Walter Mitty

He kept up the pace hour after hour

Until he eventually arrived at the Eiffel Tower

“Anglais?” the people he met did say

“Non, je ne suis pas” he replied. “Je suis Écossais.”