Wednesday, 18 February 2009


Here's a wee poem I wrote a few years ago. I must have been feeling all jaded and cynical!


Ye’ll aye fin yins 'at sweer bline Elvis isnae deid ava,

An tha feck o fowk wud mebbe yit houl wi a freat ir twa.

But wushin ir haipin fur simthan, disnae mak it true,

Ye cannae lippen oan aa ye’r telt - maist o ye wud alloo.

Yince A haed a notion A cud quarely lilt a sang,

Til A heared masel, as ithers heared, an foon oot A wus wrang.

Fur a sough o truth blowed in ma lugs - By Sowl, it gunked me sair -

An noo, ootwith tha motor car, ye’ll hear me lilt nae mair.

Sure A shud hae knowed fae Rabbie Burns, tae no growe sic a thocht,

Fur aa his puir Jenny’s fency airs, the’ didnae get her ocht.

Thon hizzie she wus fu o pride, til tha loose craa’d owre her bonnet,

Bot w’ir aa tha yin soo’s pïgs, ye ken, an aye we shud hae mine o’it.

Fur there’s bums an blows ’at get oan like tha Kïngs o Dear knows whaur,

Ir let oan tae be oul hauns, an cannae dae ocht ava.

Whiles ye’ll mebbe hear a whud o sim gulpin cum tae po’er

An muckle heich aboon us growed, wi better yins past owre.

Tha warl’s fu o chates an lee’rs, an there’s boys wud dae thar grannie,

Owre tha heid o a wheen o pun – tak tent, freens, aye be cannie.

But whut gangs aroon wull cum aroon, accordin tae tha saw:

The’ll aa be ketched oot in tha en, by thair ain fowks, ir tha laa.

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