So I went off to see the doctor,

“What d’you make of this?” I said,

“Folklore yarns and country ditties

Keeps me awake, in my old bed.”

“Well blow me down” the doc replied

As thoughtfully he scratched his head,

“I think you have become Bucolic,

A hopeless case I fear” he said.

My jaw dropped down, I went all cold,

My heart was filled with fear and dread,

So now afflicted as I be,

I must go home and soothe my head.

The doc gave me some City pills,

“These may not help much” he confessed,

I stumbled off back to my home,

But filled with doom, I couldn’t rest.

So I went up ‘The Dog and Partridge,’

Wailed to customers and staff.

“I’ve got the dread-disease Bucolic”

But all the blighters did was laugh!

“Go look it up” you soppy Yokel,

See what’s in thy dictionary,”

They spluttered through their helpless giggles,

“Bucolic never will kill thee!”

So I went back down to my cottage,

Mystified I trod the path,

In my old book I found the word,

And blow me down, I didn’t half laugh!

What I found in the dictionary,

Here and now I will confide,

The meaning of Bucolic is:  Pastoral – Rustic – Countryfied.

The weight was lifted from my shoulders,

No longer mine the fear and dread,

I’m happy to be so Bucolic,

Now I snore easy in my bed.

Local Yokel   © 2009