A Mackerel Day (Stuart Moffatt)
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(Posted 2026-03-09) CPDL #88589:
- Editor: Stuart Moffatt (submitted 2026-03-09). Score information: A4, 18 pages, 567 kB Copyright: CPDL
- Edition notes:
General Information
Title: A Mackerel Day
Composer: Stuart Moffatt
Lyricist: Stuart Moffatt
Number of voices: 1v Voicing: S
Genre: Secular, Unknown
Language: English
Instruments: Piano
First published: 2005
Description: The work was prompted by the publication of some very special words in an interesting list of words for improving English, expanding the mind and winning at Scrabble games prepared by Karen E Kavana of West Michigan University. Sadly the list has gone, even from StumbleUpon. A representation of it may still be found here
External websites:
Original text and translations
English text
It was a mackerel sky
and the dumbledore had more rumgumption
than to indulge in clishmaclaver with the tattiebogle,
who was little more than a doddypoll,
not knowing a B from a bull's foot.
There was a collieshangie at the bottom of the dell
as the carnaptious moudiewort ran ramgunshoch
over the nippertytipperty forkytail,
but it was the pinguitude of the roscid,
suaveolent quakinggrass that stood
rutilent against the refulgent weather gleam
above the grufted vug, that drew her eye.
A glimmergowk flew along the crinkumcrankum dell,
its ferntickles sparkling in the celestial flouresence.
The moudiewort, wamblecropped,
desisted to snuzzle and wappereyed reflected
on the wanchancy of the occasion
as he was obumbrated on the floor below.
But this was no Tom Tiddler's ground for the glimmergowk,
whose beak was as capable of squabash as the pilliwinks
so beloved by the humgruffin, whose lack of batology
caused him to bring a hog to a fine market
and allowed the moudiewort to scunge away.
In this way he was flimped of his meal, and the moudiewort
pleased not to to have the black ox tread on his foot.
Meanwhile the hand of the wag-at-the-wa' coming into syzygy
initiated a period of fantoosh tintinnabulation,
which left the people of the village mirligoes
and of humdudgeon.
A blatherskite appeared with his whigmaleerie
talking all manner of clamjamphrie.
He was as ready to cry stinking fish as roast meat.
Soon after him on his dandy-horse followed,
followed the gerundgrinder,
who was incompossible with the grammaticaster,
who thought him nothing more than a slipstring
and often accused him of being unguligrade.
He was always ready
He was always ready to whip the cat,
He was always ready to whip the cat,
whilst the other always had a rod in the pickle
to give him his kale through the reek.
It was no kilfudyoking when they were around,
as they both thought they had the sockdologer
and would prove to be the better deipnosophist,
but in the end they both ultracrepidated.
It was only a tosticated gawpus
who would ride bodkin with them,
who always had a crow to pluck with,
it was far better to give leg bail,
but not so as to out-run the constable,
as to dree one's weird with these two, as you would
when you heard 'Gardyloo!' ring out above your head.
To leave the management of the village to them
would be kakistocracy and
would require a great deal of nepenthe.
The village being located in the dell,
relied on the fishy-back for supplies,
with the inevitable mallemaroking seamen
that it introduced from time to time.
The sculduddry of these bedswervers
so discombobulated our kakistocrats
that they quite took the mulligrubs.
They would pad the hoof together,
one exclaiming that the only thing to do
with them was omoplatoscopy just to see how
their bones crack in the fire,
whilst the other muttered 'taghairm',
meaning to wrap them up and drown them there.
In the end, in a remarkable display of
leiotrichy they agreed the only thing to do
was to exact the buttock-mail from them.
The baker though was a two pot screamer
who was known to frequently broach
the admiral to get his snootful.
Mops and brooms were never enough for him
with the result that often when he was sotious
the bishop put his foot in it.
And though his work glooped well at the first
it failed to reach paneity.
His oven's were like the mutton-thumper's ink-room
after Ralph had visited him.
He was ruled by the bitch goddess,
and though his wife were a horse-godmother,
the grey mare was the better horse.
The only good you could say of him was
he was no henhussy.
Now it was said of the fizgig
that after the thunderplump,
when the merry dancers were visible,
she had seen urchin shows.
The bullbeggar so it seemed wore
a rather spoffish scroddled coat,
and often a wigs on the green
could be seen between him and the shellycoat.
Lobliebythe fire was however
more often to be found aestivating
than about his business:
aestivating well mark you!
Now the burn the wind was a diff'rent, a different kettle of fish.
He was no nipcheese,
even though you would not even find an angel's share
in his house.
He was the only one the village trusted
not to lose the presentment of Englishry
should they ever have needed it.
the presentment of Englishry!
His ability to burn the water ensured
that no genethliac day passed without a goluptious feast.
without a goluptious feast.
Now his wife was no mean thumper.
His wife was no mean thumper.
Her callipygous pulchritude caused others
to become beblubbered in the contemplation thereof,
and, as it were, to deliquesce and yump away.