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I’ll now tell you a story to cause you some mirth
Of a giant who thought that his strength ruled the earth,
     But, he married a woman from Yorkshire we’re told,
     And under her thumb, was a great deal less bold.

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Giant Rombald, one day, returned late from the pub,
And, thumping the table, demanded some *grub,
     At which point his good wife drew up herself tall,
     And the meal that was waiting, splattered the wall.

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She grabbed her rude husband and swung him round hard,
And the next thing he knew he was out in the yard.
     The rolling pin caused him to flee full of fear,
     And what soon was to follow became very clear.

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In a flash he ran out through the yard’s wooden gate,
For to stay was to only invite a sad fate.
     With his she-devil chasing and keen to attack,
     He fled to the moors hoping not to come back.

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His feet left their footprints – they’re there to this day -
But Rombald kept running to get far away.
     His wife came behind him and hurled a great stone,
     Which, catching his head, caused an almighty groan.

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More stones rained upon him – her wrath was so great.
Then his foot hit a huge rock but, due to his weight,
     It split full down the middle – yes, clearly in half.
     These rocks are today known as The Cow and The Calf.

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Well what happened to Rombald?  Does anyone know?
Return to his she-devil?  Well, perhaps he did go,
     But . . .  A woman from Yorkshire is always the boss
     And someone a wise man for certain won’t cross.

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Copyright on all my poems

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* grub: (informal):  food, ie 'They serve wonderful pub grub here.'                                       

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