From Abbottabad to Abbottaworse. In verse.

[desperance]

It is bad to point and laugh, I know. But I stand in desperate need of something to cheer myself up by, and if it comes down to pointing and laughing, then so be it.

Besides, this should be shared. This is the new William McGonagall. More or less contemporary with the original McGonagall, as it happens; can there have been something in that nineteenth-century air?

Also, as far as we know he only wrote one poem. I guess if you get to found a city, and then name it after yourself, you also get to write a poem about it. But just the one.

I give you General Sir James Abbott, KCB, and "Abbottabad".

You're welcome.


Abbottabad

I remember the day when I first came here
And smelt the sweet Abbottabad air

The trees and ground covered with snow
Gave us indeed a brilliant show

To me the place seemed like a dream
And far ran a lonesome stream

The wind hissed as if welcoming us
The pine swayed creating a lot of fuss

And the tiny cuckoo sang it away
A song very melodious and gay

I adored the place from the first sight
And was happy that my coming here was right

And eight good years here passed very soon
And we leave you perhaps on a sunny noon

Oh Abbottabad we are leaving you now
To your natural beauty do I bow

Perhaps your winds sound will never reach my ear
My gift for you is a few sad tears

I bid you farewell with a heavy heart
Never from my mind will your memories thwart