A (more-or-less-well-meaning) giant
is stumbling round the world.
To signify esprit de corps
he wears his flag unfurled.

He lumbers here; he lumbers there;
he wishes he'd stayed put.
The scorpions he's kicked by chance
are nipping at his foot.

They¹re biting on his ankle now;
they¹re midway up his calf.
Though more-or-less intending good
he can't do things by half.

He has the power to smear the lot
at one step with his boots
or tear his row of troubles up
like turnips by the roots.

The problem is his head's too high;
It's too far off ground.
He kicks a rock by accident
and, look, see what he's found

scorpions with fiery tails
and very narrow views.
It's hard for giants to win, of course,
but, equally, to lose.

Our giant will never understand
the reasons for such hate.
Scorpions are made that way.
It¹s surely just his fate

to stagger hugely round the world.
We buy it with the size.
He's really well-intentioned but
He'll never quite be wise.

No matter how the battle goes
his feet begin to drag.
It's hard work wearing size eighteens
and dancing with the flag.