Notes: the poem refers to the 13 teams from the QLFC forum. Canon-abiding facts only. To these teams — thanks for all the fun! :) You're all awesome. :3 I hope you like the gift!poetry!fic.
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The ABCs of Team Quidditch, Please
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There's a witch by the stall,
her shoulders covered by a shawl,
and she's gloating of them all —
the thirteen Quidditch teams, always standing tall
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She's a teacher, so theoretically
she ought to start alphabetically
Thus she begins frenetically:
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The Appleby Arrows are drenched in gorgeous pale blue
and they're swift as the wind, through-and-through
It was sixteen-twelve the first time they flew
and continually they accrue
admirers from as far as Little Karoo or Montagu
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The Ballycastle Bats are immersed in red and black
and they're close and dangerous like a wolf pack
You won't see them coming until thwack, you're someone's snack,
says the witch, and has a flashback —
to them winning the Quidditch League and twenty-seven plaques
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The Caerphilly Catapults — light green and red stripes
like business-people's pinstripes
They're a genotype:
penderfynir, as the Welsh would call 'round their bagpipes
Formed in fourteen-o-two as a prototype and perfected as an archetype
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The Chudley Cannons are coated in orange
and from them pours a wealth of knowledge
on perseverance and sky-soaring,
muses the witch, oh-so-adoring
as she pulls their 1972 we shall conquer motto from storage
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The Falmouth Falcons are clothed in deep grey and white
and in them flows blood aching to fight and desperate to take flight
No matter the night, the height of the game, or their plight
they march forth, as sure as the king's knights
Ever-ready to break heads on sight
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The Holyhead Harpies drench themselves in darkest green
Like Amazon warriors, they are all female queens
With their eyesight keen and their movements lean,
they flew against the Heidelberg Harriers in a game so obscene
that it lasted seven days, says the witch, her eyes covered in a sheen
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The Kenmare Kestrels steep themselves in the green of an emerald
They are mighty and clever and ever-imperilled
Like their leprechaun mascots, they are wit-and-gold generals
and the Irish proudly herald:
Here come the Kestrels — their greatness assembled
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The Montrose Magpies equip themselves in white and predominant black
They are deadly as the Scottish seas when they attack,
as proven by their history in the League Cup or the crack,
the crack, crack, crack of their mental almanac
as it breaks away the will of their enemies, the witch says, taken aback
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The Pride of Portree are draped in star-emblazoned purple
and like sharp-toothed sharks they encircle
their adversaries, their battle-plans eternal
and their skills as infernal
as they always have been to their hurtles
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The Puddlemere United are glazed in navy blue and bulrushes' gold
Since eleven-sixty-three they've been going bold,
the witch says, and shouts: behold —
none can control the old warriors from times told
Whose games unfolded like assassins, so cold
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The Tutshill Tornados are cloaked in sky blue
After five victories in a row, they set records anew
Records again: the fastest win ever, too,
after the snitch was caught in three-and-a-half seconds' due —
What came to be known as the Plumpton Pass, in review
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The Wigtown Wanderers are deadly in blood-red
and may carry a silver meat-cleaver to use on an enemy's head
Perhaps their invented move — the Parkin's Pincer — will see you dead
or filled with utter dread
and cursing seven children wherever they may tread
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The Wimbourne Wasps are dizzying in horizontal black and yellow
They may use a buzzing wasps' nest on a fellow
to send him quickly speeding to Portobello,
lest he hear a funeral song from a melancholic cello
Should they see the Arrows, they'd murder them with all the passion of Othello
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The witch beams wide, and shows off blackened teeth and bleeding gums
There ye have it — the Quidditch teams, she hums
to the beating of market drums
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— msl