Website was Born on 7th August 2011, last evolved 23rd October 2015

Meg Merrilies


Gender : Female Age : No chicken Father (in a manner of speaking) : John Keats 1795 - 1821



Occupation : Tinker : Fortune teller : Clothes peg/Lucky White Heather seller : Vagabondess

Only if you read this in conjunction with Mr Keats's effort of the same name will you release the full force of cosmic energy locked herein (who writes this pretentious crap. Is he on medication, or simply away with the fairies?). The first two lines of each verse are Mr Keats'; the rest are mine.



Old Meg she was a gypsy;

and lived upon the moors.

She slept beneath the stars at night;

and breakfasted on Coors.



Her apples were swart blackberries,

her currants, pods o' broom.

Her wine was full-strength Mundies,

and she wore Fruit of the Loom.



Her brothers were the craggy hills,

her sisters larchen trees.

She'd roll a joint, and with the stars

she'd sit and shoot the breeze.



No breakfast had she many a morn,

no dinner many a noon.

But Social Services came by

now she sups from a silver spoon.



But every morn, of woodbine fresh

and sprigs of lucky heather.

She'd make up packs of cigarettes

and key fobs of fine leather.



And with her fingers old and brown

she plaited mats o' rushes

Then she'd flog them to the cruisers

she met among the bushes.



Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen (who?)

and tall as Amazon.

A pair of jeans, a skinny top

and Louboutin to walk on.

God rest her aged bones somewhere,

she died a crippled wreck.






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