ABOUT GUY
There’s something I must now say,
That I’m sure will ruin your day,
Colour thoughts dainty and gay,
And reveal that all you thought right,
In truth rests on feet of clay
In a time of long ago,
When pink was worn by thatchers,
And men of manly stature,
Wore their powder, wigs and tights
While riding across pasture,
There were some Catholic rebels,
Loyal to Philip the treble
They plotted to kill the King,
And Parliament in sitting,
Gunpowder was their device,
To shorn history of vice,
They descended the cellar,
Lanterns lit to guide them better
Alas, they failed in their scheme,
It was in truth but a dream,
When caught, a plotter called Guy,
He from York, of the name Fawkes,
Decided on a course sly,
Pleaded parlay, but suffered,
Not one more word he uttered,
Though still dungeoned and tortured,
Cruelly, he was to be slaughtered
Guy’s last words were to his Church,
As his tormenters looked up,
He had been left in the lurch,
His place in history sure,
His soul manifestly pure,
His blest place next to the Lord,
Thence written in golden accord
Today we burn the man Guy,
And launch fireworks in night skies,
Little-known is an old secret,
Kept by Guy from prying eyes,
Known by few, mainly spies,
You ask what this secret is,
I tell you it is dark as graves,
Has been whispered in dusty naves,
Caused threats at the points of glaives,
But is light as jester’s raves
It is much more serious,
Than a lusty hue and cry,
Or even penny for the Guy,
For some it shall spell the Nigh,
What is this secret?, you chide,
Well let me spare you bromide,
You all thought Guy was a kerl,
While Guy was preoccupied,
With making his dark hair curl,
Before giving us a twirl
What I mean to say is grave,
Cannot be unsaid by knaves,
There is much truth in the rumour
That has caused us much humour
That Guy was not all he seemed
Indeed, he may be redeemed,
And rumours not swell and swirl,
If we now state it plainly:
Though it will make your hair curl,
To know that Guy was a girl!
