Thursday, 17 March 2011
Ye see yon mannie on TV,
Wha humphs, and grrumphs, an aa that,
Whose mournful physiognomy
Wad mak' ye greet, an aa that?
Tall and sad and misanthropic,
So anti-Jock, so tragi-comic,
We all go – Och, Awaaaa!
For aa that, Paxo's aye a man.
I'd rather cross the desert sand,
Wi Jeremy, cooorse though he be,
Than some weel up the HolyRood tree,
For Scotland, double darkness mocks,
(Eh, Scholars, that's Scotia & Knox)
In thrall to Salmond, bap-faced chiel,
Bombastier far than thou - and Swinney,
Switie draplets beaded at his brimmie,
Trrrump'd o'er again!
But sentimental, nous? Na, na!
A wee boy grat and ran awa.
Doooom'd though we be, wrack'd, ruin'd & impov'rish'd,
Still we persist.
No retro-sporranical supports
According to reliable report's
Required for Scots - we're air condish'd.
But Jeremy, whose scrotal mass
Crruel Grravity subverts -
Hung doon, gey shrunk and rrather squished,
Goolies & Facial - Grrravitas!
If ne'er a skeery word were spoken
And we had ne'er faa'n oot sae maddily
We Scots wad be a bit heart-broken.
Sans persiflage, we'd gie a docken,
Sans reason to react sae rrrabidly.
If Rab the Rhymer needs defended,
When our collective kilt's rear-ended,
When murd'rous prattle him belittles
In wordy book of jots and tittles,
When Paxo's withering hand is slapp't
On marbled jugular veiny thrrapple -
Tae arms! Tae arms!
.... Ach, Pam, tak' a letter.
Gin’s read on my blogsite, that’ll be better!
Copyright © Donnie Ross 2008