Page 31
Normally performed as spoken word poetry, but set to the tune of Sad Songs and Waltzes tune (find it elsewhere in this book) as done by Charles Kentigern on YouTube.

Just outside Edinburgh, just nine hundred and twenty two miles outside Edinburgh, in France in fact, lies the sleepy little town of EFFEN, the curative quality of whose honey is renowned all over the civilised world - and in Glasgow. The very extraordinary bees who produce this honey are not unnaturally referred to as EFFEN bees in and around the town whose quaint architecture is marred by the factory in its centre where half the population are employed in the manufacturing of Gendarmes' truncheons or, as the French choose to call them, policemen's batons.
A favorite of Miss Kahnstruud.
C/G 3x201x

    Effen Bee, The

    by Matt McGinn
    He kept [G] bees in the old town of [C] Effen, [C/G]
    An [F] Effen beekeeper was [C] he, [D]
    And [F] one day this Effen bee- [C] keeper,
    Was [G] stung by a big Effen [C] bee. [C/G]

    Now this big Effen beekeeper's wee Effen wife,
    For the big Effen polis she ran,
    For there's nobody can sort out a big Effen bee,
    Like a big Effen polisman can.

    This big Effen polisman he did his nut,
    And he ran down the main Effen street,
    In his hand was a big Effen baton,
    He had big Effen boots on his feet.

    The polis got hold of this big Effen bee,
    And he twisted the Effen bee's wings,
    But this big Effen bee he got him back,
    for this big Effen bee had two stings.

    Now they're both in the Effen museum,
    Where the Effen folk often come see,
    The remains of the big Effen polis,
    Stung to death by the big Effen bee.

    That's the end of my wee Effen story,
    'Tis an innocent wee Effen tale,
    But if you ever tell it in Effen,
    You'll end up in the old Effen jail.