THE BLACK CLOUD
Iceland is an island it’s hard to care about.
In the realm of world affairs, it lacks a lot of clout.
The population’s small; fishing is their game.
Far from anywhere, no foe that one can name.
They’re near the Arctic Circle; it ain’t no Waikiki!
There’re mountains and glaciers and all around the sea.
Icelanders are descendants of hearty Viking stock.
Used to raising hell, they said: ‘Time to awe and shock!’
‘Too long we’ve been ignored! We’ll get attention yet!’
They summoned Eyjafjallajokull to express their surly pet.
Happy to oblige, the volcano rudely spewed,
And suddenly the world was to the TV glued.
News of that eruption spread wide to say the least,
Iceland now on every tongue, for CNN a feast!
Today a shroud of ash, five-thousand metres high,
Blankets most of Europe. No airline dares to fly.
Travelers by the millions have had to alter plans.
Iceland’s profile soars in all once heedless lands.
But a problem lingers on. Who can say the spewer’s name?
Why don’t we simply call it Iceland’s Claim to Fame!