As I was going
to Scarborough Fair
I met a man who wasn't there.
Who'd have thought that such could be?
Not you, not him, not her, not me!
I'll tell you how he didn't look:
Not like a thimble, carp, or rook.
He didn't look like Forrest Gump
Or like a camel's middle hump.
And here is what he didn't say:
“I left my heart at Thunder Bay.”
And here is what he didn't ask:
“Have you seen my Opus mask?”
I'd tell you what he didn't do
But it was so complex that you
Nor I could start to comprehend
And details would but vaguely blend.
Of course, he didn't have a hat,
Nor any coat, and for that mat-
Ter neither did he have a shoe,
Nor collar, tie, nor sweater too.
Was he happy, angry, glum?
Wore a mushroom on his thumb?
Green beard hanging to his waist?
Nose stuck on with library paste?
Five miles wide and ten miles tall?
Eyes the size of Albert Hall?
Holding nine immense balloons
Decorated with cartoons?
Or, perhaps, a tiny guy,
Riding on a tsetse fly?
By his side would you have met
A common flea, his faithful pet?
Equine beast, would that be him?
Galloping just on a whim
Wherever fancy took his heart?
Centaur dude, a breed apart?
Answer's no to all of course;
He wasn't giant, mite, nor horse,
But just a figment, etched in air —
And so, in truth, was Scarborough Fair.