This (almost) really happened. If you are from a part of the world that doesn’t know what an Eistedfodd is, it is an event with a Welsh name that is held in big and small towns so that the students of drama schools in the district can gain recognition through competition. It is a very serious affair and the judges can be quite solemn. My daughter was very nervous and negative before competing but did well, so I couldn’t resist satirising her behaviour.
EISTEDFODD BLUES
“I’m feeling sick. I can’t eat this. I know this food is off!
I’m getting a tickle in my throat. I know I’m going to cough”
“It’s the whingeing sickness!” father said
As Annie began to moan.
“You’ve got hypochondria.”
She gave another groan.
“It’s half past six,” father said.
“We don’t want to be late.”
“So eat your cereal all up.
You know that you’ll be great.”
“You don’t know,” said Annie
“How terrible I feel.
Have you even thought for one moment
This sickness might be real.”
“No,” said Dad. “You’re anxious.
It’s psychosomatic you know.
Just grab your bag and do your hair.
We really have to go.”
In the car Annie sat,
Silent the whole way;
Looking very pale and wan,
Her skin a shade of grey.
As they came closer and closer to the ordeal that she dreaded:
An Art-of-Speech recitation at the annual Ayr Eistedfodd.
“I’m losing my voice,” she whispered
In very feeble tones.
“Buck up. We have to go in,” said Dad
“Cheer up and stop your moans.”
The Judges looked impressive,
With hair of silver grey.
“I can’t do it,” said Annie
What if I faint away?”
Her group was summoned to prepare
And with a last roll of the eyes
She went off to check her hair,
No hope of winning a prize.
Father confided to a friend,
“I’ve made the wrong choice.
This will have a bad end.
She hasn’t got a voice!”
“I’m feeling nervous now,” thought Dad.
Perhaps I will be sick”
Every muscle tightened up;
Then Annie began to speak.
“I’m feeling sick. I can’t eat this.
I know this food is off.
I’m getting a tickle in my throat.
I know I’m going to cough.”