by Nick Gisburne
His portrait haunts the attic, out of sight
They told him he was handsome, but they lied
His clothes were sails and curtains, far too tight
A giant, up and over, side to side
He staggered round the harbour, every night
Propelling beer, in barrels, down his neck
But those who wished him sober he would bite
Unless he took his teeth out for the trek
The size of him was something of a shock
You’d need a map to guide you, tip to toe
The day he died he stopped the village clock
At quarter past eleven, so you know
You could not hope to find a face more grim
His mother, though, was twice as big as him
