McDougal Hippopotamus
sat down in his armchair
and pondered on the question why
he had no kilt to wear.
He was a Scottish Hippo,
born and bred in Glasgow zoo;
to wear a tartan kilt, he felt,
was what he ought to do.

His mother never thought of it,
His father heaved a sigh
and said, “There is no tartan, son,
for Hippopotami.
It would be Hippo-critical
to say it bothers me,
I’ve never felt deprived. Now, lad,
sit down and have your tea.”

McDougal hardly touched it.
“What will become of us?”
It was a sad and dreadful sight
to see a Hippo thus.
He said, “ It is undignified
and, to our breed, abhorrent
to be without a tartan kilt,
with or without a sporran.

McDougal Hippopotamus
was sunk in deep despair.
It made his parents very sad
to see him sitting there.
“We’ll advertise his quest,” they said
“in all the Scottish news,
he’ll be the toast of Glasgow
and all the other zoos.”

Then tartans came from far and wide
in plaids of every hue
but none of them would fit him
so, what were they to do?
The solution that they came to
was, that every Hippo must
resign himself to kilt-less go,
no matter how unjust.

McDougal would not have it,
to give up, he was loath.
His father, under stress,
then swore a Hippo-cratic oath.
“I tell you, Dad, I know it,
for my Hippo-thesis is
that, somewhere in this land of Scots,
a kilt for me exists.

Then came the Lochness monster
who said, to their surprise,
he had a kilt that he could have
which would be just his size.
McDougal, quite delighted, cried
“It is the very thing,”
and there, beside the Loch that night
they danced the Highland fling.

© Marion Sharville

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