Post by Deleted on Aug 18, 2009 2:58:28 GMT 1
I started to write poems after I left the army in 1986. What started me off was the events of 9/11 in New York. Like most people, I watched as the horror unfolded 'live' on our TV screens. As the events unfolded, I was at the time on a football forum that included many ex pats resident in the States and Canada, and more than a few in New York. As I surfed the web and read the newpaper accounts, I spotted a feature where people could record there grief and thoughts, and a spot for those who put them down in rhyme, so I though to myself, I would like to try putting down in words, what I was feeling at the time, and draw on my experiences during my career facing terrorism around the globe, and as a Christian, thought to myself, what would our God make of all this mayhem?. This was my first poem, and I sent it to the New York Times, Washington Post and the Chicago Tribune, but do not know if it was published. I hope you enjoy it(and some of my more lighthearted scribbles which will follow).
Gods Tears
God up in heaven sat down on his throne,
The tears down his cheeks they did flow,
The Angels were sad as they gathered around,
Dear Father, how were you to know?
My children I’m sad, and my heart it is broke,
This creation called man can’t agree,
To love one another the way that I taught,
Don’t they know, when they hurt, they hurt me?
Through the ages I’ve tried, as a good father should,
To make man love his brother as one,
But while some have shone brightly, and that made me proud,
I wish that some others had done.
I gave them the gift to develop and grow,
Many colours, and creeds, even wives,
But all I can see, as I gaze on the scene,
Are my children, at odds, taking lives?
I gave them a voice, and the freedom of choice,
A mistake on my part maybe so,
These tears on my cheeks are not there for me,
But my children, at war down below.
So, what must I do, can I make them see sense?
I just can’t do nothing, or sit on the fence,
If my children don’t stop all this mayhem and pain,
I will end my creation, and start over again.
Gods’ children you are, where ere you reside,
So help stop my tears, come sit by my side,
Let me tell you again, it’s still just as true,
That you do unto others, you would have done unto you.
Give a hand to your brother; please make him your friend,
The world so much better would be,
Gods tears would be gone, and the family of man,
Once again all together would be.
©Ronnie Hughes, Glasgow , Scotland , September 2001
Three Strangers Came To My Home Town.
Three strangers came to my home town, and each had travelled far,
One by boat and one by plane, and one by motor car;
They did not know each other then, but this was soon to change,
And when you know the reason why, you will not find it strange.
The first man did not ask the way, to his intended goal,
but stepped out briskly on his way, to keep out winter cold;
His destination was of course, a place well known to some,
the reason now he did not ask, the poor man he was dumb. (Trauma)
The second man, a lonely man, he did not stop to chat,
But made his way into the town, he was quite sure of that;
And at his goal a friend to meet, he only knew as Geoff,
A big smile crossed his face just then, like him, his friend was deaf. (Shell shock)
The third man heard the traffic noise, directions he did ask,
His final destination made, and that was quite some task;
No night or day for this poor man, I’m sure that you will find,
that this man had his problems too; yes this poor man was blind. (Mustard gas)
Now why should these three men arrive, not knowing one another?
They travelled far to pay respects unto a fallen brother;
Not one that they could call their kin, but one that they all knew,
The same as them my friends of course, he's known to me and you.
The blind man took the deaf man's arm; the deaf man took the mute,
and made their way to the poppy wreaths, to give their own salute;
they bowed their heads like you and I, as each year we get older,
and pay respects to the one we know, as our brother, the Unknown Soldier.
©Ronnie Hughes 9th May 2009.
Lenny The 50 Year Old Louse Fri Luss
(A lousy poem if ever ah heard wan)
My name is Lenny, a wee louse frae Luss,
Came here years ago oan an auld clapped oot bus,
Hitched a lift oan the heid of a wee guy called Vince,
Got lost at a campsite, been here ever since.
Ma maw wis a lousy wee nit fri Drumoyne,
She knew aw the songs that were sung at the Boyne,
The Old Orange Flute she hud aff ti a “T”,
Till her louse of a man ran away wi’ a flea.
She took it real bad and she drank quite a few,
‘till she foamed at the mooth, it wis friggin’ shampoo,
It was then I met Vince; we were soon oan wir ways,
How wis ah ti know, it wis his holidays?
Wi a pack oan his back, sturdy boots oan his feet,
He marched to the bus station, doon Waterloo Street,
“Hey mr conductor, kin a smoke oan yir bus?”
“Aye, sure son, of course, it’s a long way ti Luss”.
It wis strange there at first, aye, too strange indeed,
Then I heard something else rustling oan Vinnys wee heid,
“Hullaw there ma china” cried a voice fri the shed,
“Ah’m Lisa fri Lambhill, jist oota ma bed”.
Her face it wis ugly, though her legs they were nice,
Well whit’d ye expect oan a heid full o’ lice?
Lisa, the lousy wee nit fri Lambhill,
Sorted oot aw ma needs, noo that wis some thrill.
By the time we arrived, I wis fair puckered oot,
But wee randy Vince, he changed intae his suit,
It wis aff ti a barn dance and we had no say,
Vince wis determined, his end wis away!
Aw the lice oan his heid they hung oan fur their lives,
As a big fight ensued, and oot came the knives,
There wis bitin’ and stabbin’, the odd bit o’ heid buttin’,
Then Vinny appeared like a lamb dressed as mutton.
“Right yoos bunch o’ cheuchters, ma names Vinny Fraser,
Ah’m up frae Drumoyne, wi’ ma trusty wee razor”,
“Ochone ‘zat a fact”, said a big lad frae Rhu,
And he walloped poor Vince ower the heid wi’ a cue.
Noo Vince got aff easy, just cuts oan his heid,
But ma lovely wee Lisa fri Lambhill wis deid,
My heart it was broken, oh what can one do?
With the love of your life, sconned ti’ death by a cue!
With tears of such sadness, I near lost the rag,
As I put ma ex louse, in a broon paper bag,
With one hefty pull, o’er my shoulder pit Lisa,
Hopped aff Vinnys heid, and went aff fur a pizza.
I crawled roon the loch fur six days and six nights,
And then found the graveyard, fur Glasgow’s deid mites,
Laid ti rest ma wee Lisa, and said a wee prayer,
Serves ye right ya wee nit ye, getting’ in other peoples hair.
So, the next time in Luss, if yir scratchin’ yir heid,
Don’t scratch it too hard, or ye might wake the deid,
Be very afraid when ye go spend a penny,
‘Cause that lavvy in Luss, is where you’ll find Lenny!
©Ronnie Hughes 2009
I was talking to a couple of my old army buddies a couple of weeks back, about aw the places we had been, and some of the things that happened to us. Daft wee things that the folks back home would never believe, even if we swore they were true, so I set to work on this one about a time when we were posted to Gibraltar when Franco closed the border in 1968.
In Gibraltar there are two "troops" of apes. The official troop who live up on the top, and are looked after by a senior NCO from the Ordnance Corps. They do indeed have Army numbers (same as soldiers) and the NCO's job is to make sure all are present and correct each day (just like our army 'muster' parades). The "other" troop consist of 'wild' apes who were ousted by the main bunch years earlier, and run free on the lower slopes, living on handouts from tourists, or what they can steal from unwary passers by, or, in our case, inattentive jocks on guard duty half way up the rock.
So, here we go....
A Muster Parade With A Difference
Many times’ I’ve been abroad, and many places been,
But this one takes the biscuit folks, as the strangest sight I’ve seen;
Muster parades are common stuff, we fall in at attention,
In open order ramrod stiff, we’re ready for inspection.
But not this muster I espied, in a not so far off land,
A senior NCO tried hard, to call his ‘troops’ to hand;
He stood there shouting out their names, “Haw Sampson, over here”,
But nothing moved and no-one stirred, he got a rubber ear.
The Sergeant he was angry now, his face creased with a frown,
Each absentee was noted, on his clip board names put down;
God help these tardy troops I thought, they’re really for it now,
And to my duties I returned, it’s nearly time for chow.
The guard was changed and hungry Jocks approach the now lit stoves,
When a rabble of hairy bandits swarmed, right through our camp in droves;
We saw them off and pleased as punch, another battle won,
Till we looked for our compo rations, and the buggers they were gone.
These bandits they were different, they had numbers, ranks and names,
And in the British Army too, and this was just their games;
A lesson we did learn that day, was not to watch the clock,
But high above Gibraltar town, these apes upon the Rock.
So next time when on muster and you fall in on the square,
Remember a poor wee Sergeant and his monkeys over there;
Guard duty is a grind I know, parades are just for fashions,
Keep wan eye oot fur the enemy; and the other on your bloody rations!
©Ronnie Hughes ,31st July 2009
I got the idea for this one from my days growing up. Every street with tenements had wee wifies sitting at their windaes aw day,especially during the summer, watching the kids playing and chatting to each other, sometimes these chats would involve hawf the street. ;D I suppose they were the 'original' neighbourhood watch.
The shortage of young men due to the war meant that there were bound to be some lassies who missed out in the marriage game. Every big street was bound to have a Brenda (no slight on any Brenda's on here)
The Ballad of Brenda McGhee (Or: A Burglars Lament)
In the town of Port Glasgow there lived a young lass, in a flat overlooking the sea,
That’s where I first clapped my eyes oan the sight, I hope never again for to see.
The ugliest burd in the whole bleedin’ world, yes folks you kin take it from me,
Meet Brenda McDonald McFadzean Coltrane, Fitzpatrick McGregor McGhee.
To say she wis ugly, wis putting it mild, as she sat by her windae aw day,
Gazing longingly oot as the world passed her by, in the hope that a boy came her way.
Twa bandy legs, and a wee crooked nose, Ailsa Craig wis the size of her rump,
Wi’ wan squinty eye, and a 52 chest, not forgetting that she had a hump.
Poor Brenda wis lonely, of that there’s no doubt, and boyfriends a no- no it seems,
As I looked in her eye, and she gave me a wink, not me pal, aye jist in yir dreams.
It seems such a shame, as I toodled aff hame, leaving Brenda alone at her sill,
There’s some ugly burds that kin capture a lad, of course there are some never will.
One day came to pass, this ugly young lass, left her windae ti’ go make some toast,
When in through the windae a burglar he came, and very soon wished he wis lost.
Wee Brenda she caught him alone in her room, as he rifled the loot frae her hoose,
This is ma chance, thought wee Brenda at last, as her boobs from her bra she let loose.
Wee Joe the burglar looked aghast, his face wis as white as a sheet,
Of aw the hooses he picked tae tan and whit a god awful sight for ti’ meet.
Aw Christ whit is this, the burglar enquired, I only came in for yir loot,
That’s OK son, said wee Brenda with glee, only two weeks ti go, then yir oot.
The fortnight flew in and wee Brenda wis glad; at long last she’d captured a boy,
Virginity gone and two weeks of pure lust, the burglar wid make a good toy.
It’s fair ti’ say Joe didnae see it that way, he wis knackered and right puckered oot,
He longed for the day, he had to escape, doon the pawn wi’ the ugly hags loot.
Some years doon the line, wee Joe doing time, in his cell he jist let his mind wander,
That time in Port Glasgow he robbed the wrang hoose, aye, whit a major blunder.
Still sat at her windae wis Brenda McGhee, she wis smilin’ for aw she was worth,
There by her side was her 5-year-old pride, a wan eyed humpy backit wee dwarf.
This tale has a moral, and, yes it is true, ugly hags can get boyfriends, aye, even you,
Don’t sit at your windae, watch life pass you by, go make some toast, or even a pie.
Remember wee Brenda, the ugliest burd, that’s ever been this side of Oban,
Just make sure that when you leave your room, that your windae on life is left open.
Ronnie Hughes 1995
Wullie The Wee Whelk Frae Largs
Wee Wullie the whelk, he fell oot wi’ his pal,
A limpet called Larry frae Larne,
No reason wis geid for the wee fa’ing oot,
But Larry wis meaning no harm.
It transpired oan a Thursday, the day before lent,
That Wullie wis aff oan his runs,
And Larry wis stuck oan a rock it wid seem,
Humpin’ granite wi’ two of his sons.
A lobster called Fred, got oota his bed,
And telt the wee shelfish ti stoapit,
I’ve been up aw night, wi’ you pair o’ e,
Gies a knife and y’ill end up like Bobbit.
Wee Wullie wis wonky, no’ feeling himsell,
He went for a walk and some patter,
He took aff his shell and he threw it away,
And wis jist like a fish oota watter.
It seems the wee snail ended up in a pail,
Oan the end o’ a hook fur some cod,
When the hook jagged his arse he wis crying aloud,
Aw naw, help ma boab, oh my god.
The fisherman stood well aback frae the quay,
He looked roon at his pals wi’ disdain.
It’s only a whelk said the fisherman loud,
And the hook up its arse is its ain.
Wee Wullie and Larry are noo best o’ friends,
‘cause Wullie he landed in Ulster,
and Larry wis glad that wee Wullie brought o’er,
aw the friggin’ wee whelks he could muster.
Ronnie (fishermans friend) , 1993.
A Wee Banana
A wee banana took a turn, and thought that he wis lunch,
Until he saw his mates aroon, a friggin awfi bunch,
He peeled away and soon wis nude, his skin wis in the bin,
Haw missus, where’s these sandwiches, that I am going in?
The onion thought that this wis mad, feck this ah’m nearly greetin’
Till lettuce, ah’ll be having you, took veggies to a meeting.
The wee cucumber gied a burp, yes that’s whit they jist do,
Spring onions jiggin in ma fridge, and mushrooms up ma flue!
The cabbage sat and wondered why, the pot wis boiling mad,
Then he wis chopped and popped aboard, it’s really friggin sad,
The mince sat in the corner, not saying a bloody word,
You veggie bassas get ti fu**, and don’t you touch ma burd!
The wee Banana oan the piece, wis watching with disdain,
Then Tam the Spam came oot the fridge and he wis oan his ain.
Yoos lucky bassas aw yoos veg, yees aw huv aw yir skin,
Yees don’t know just whit hardship is, when ye canny get oot a tin.
The wee banana took a look, he didnae find it sad,
That other plants were getting ate, he wis mighty feckin’ glad,
Haw yoos he said ti the green leafed plants, yees better shut yir gub,
That bassas in the kitchen noo and he’s looking fur some grub!
The lettuce looked up frae his plate, feck this he said ah’m limp,
And you ya feckin turnip, yir nothin’ but a pimp,
The wee potato took the hump, said he wid take no lip,
And true ti form the daft wee chunt he ended up a chip.
Banana said afore he left, this place is feckin’ weird,
This kitchens friggin manky, and the breid it hus a beard
The cabbage ran right through us aw, the tumshie mashed his heid,
But then ah took a big big bite, banana!.............you are deid!
Ronnie 1990.
Ode Tae A Livers' Wurst
Apologies all for the lack of a rhyme,
on the National poetry day,
but me and ma liver had a doaktur tae meet,
in the "Southern" which is over my way.
We sat doon fur a chat, aboot this and then that,
then he telt me he needed mair blood,
then a big bloody jack-booted dispenser of pain,
jabbed ma erm and it gushed like a flood.
"Jeezus christ missus nurse, yiv jist made me feel worse",
"Huv ye left me enough tae get hame?"
"Ach it's jist a wee prick, and yir no' aw that sick",
"And the needle and you share a name".
It was soon time tae go, so ah said cheerio,
"See ye later" she cried fit tae burst,
then I ran oot the door and I cursed and I swore,
and I shouted, "No' if ah see ye first".
Ronnie or Bloodless Bard(er) If yees see a "bloodless" coup, I've jist been fur a top up) ;D ;D
Another I wrote on my birthday in July.
An OAP Looks Back
Barely past my eighteenth year, I signed to serve my queen,
Got sent off ower to Germany, and sights I’d never seen;
Hunners o’ sojers everywhere, Canuks and Jocks and Taffs,
And best of all were the downtown bars, the Frauline’s and the laughs.
Now Jocks and Taffs got on just fine, we had the time o’ our lives,
But these wee “Van Doos” up the road, they bassas aw hud knives;
Fights oft ensued o’er daft wee things, not the things that we were needing,
Then the shout went up; ”Don’t punch him son; just wait till yir feet are bleeding”.
My twenties came and off again, we flew off to the sun,
The isle of Aphrodite called, blue berets, loaded gun;
Things were fine, the sun, the wine, and life was good indeed,
But then up popped the ‘carpet shop’, one wrong move, we were deid!
Time moved on, and so did we; back home, Fort George, out by the sea,
I gave up frauline’s, gained a wife, and so began my married life;
Fresh oot the Calton, my vision of heaven, seems so long ago, Martha Street ’67,
Life couldn’t be better, it really is great, and she bore us a son, Christmas day ’68.
Life way up north was different yet fun, but too soon once more we were heading for sun,
It seems Senor Franco, a Spanish bampot, took the hump with Brits so he turfed oot the lot;
Up on the ‘Rock’ the apes were in fashion, till the wee hairy bassas ran off wi’ the rations,
‘Emergency’ over; back home once again; the "Strath" and the "Cally" or some feckin’ glen.
Soon we departed, the Fort far behind, and we headed “dahn sarf”, oh what will we find?
Kiwi barracks in Bulford, lots more all around, and Salisbury plain, was our training ground;
Anywhere in the world and it’s off like a shot, but what’s coming next, aye right, we did not,
The day had arrived we formed up for muster, a new era started, our forays to ULSTER.
At first it was funny yet harder for some, not to mention ‘B’ specials; we took aw their guns,
History re-written, yes we were there, so it’s goodbye dear friend, the old “British Square”.
Danger! Of course yes, no frills and no tricks, nothing so fancy, we were the first “BRICKS”.
So it’s off back to blighty, another job done, hello Singapore lads, jungle warfare’s begun.
I’m getting much older but still I am fit, after three weeks up jungle I now smell like scheidt.
We practice our new skills, chop doon some trees, it fair puffs ye oot at a hunner degrees;
Its hame tae the wife, and aff wi’ the breeches, a wee present hen, ma erse hus got leeches,
After a scrub, nay mair ‘guests’ oan ma feet, we headed down town; ‘Kai-ties’, Bugis street.
A funny wee posting, this Anzuk brigade, only there for a wee while, I wish we had stayed,
But this is the army and we don’t stand still, if we do not do it then no bugger will;
Once more we are packed, and ready to leave, where to? God almighty, its Embra I believe,
Ach well there’s the castle, the Tattoo and fun, and up on the ramparts the one o’clock gun.
Life’s moving on now, years catching up, yet more tours in Ulster for this older pup,
Tattoos aplenty but not on my skin, there’s nowhere to put them, on someone so thin;
One day in Belfast, it’s etched on my brain, it was March ’71; we lost three of our ain,
The IRA scum, just desserts they did get, and three young lost comrades we’ll NEVER forget.
The clock’s moving faster, as older I get, we’re still stuck in Redford, did someone forget?
Then up popped he, that army schemer, pack up again lads, you’re heading to Hemer;
Now in my forties, my voice getting husky, back to the Rhineland and some pesky Ruskie,
Our wives it is certain of stern stuff are made, as we venture forth to our armoured Brigade.
Life can be fun, and yes full of surprises, but no more than I was when God gave out prizes,
Me and the wife we just thought we were done, happy with life, and a growing up son;
So here am I with whisky and water, a happy Drum Major and an unplanned wee daughter,
Now older and wiser, yes that’s me, the wife bought a chastity belt, and she kept the key.
The training was hard but the call outs were worse, the 3am “call out” the infantry curse,
The tracks often broke aye, chest deep in mud, “hello zero alpha” this radio’s a dud;
By God we were ready for world war three, my section commanders, my driver and me,
No chance of killing some Ruskies at last, Palace barracks was calling, oh my what a blast.
The constant moving takes its toll, on weary bodies mind and soul,
The freezing winters, Soltau plain, could see young soldiers weep with pain;
And rivers crossed at dead of night, non swimmers fearful, stiff with fright,
Now dry clothes on and packs on back, no rest for us, platoon attack.
But Palace brought the jocks respite, to Hollywood they went at night,
They did their best to re-arrange, some furniture in night clubs strange;
Got drunk? Of course, that’s what they do, as once did I, and even you,
Tomorrow, yet another day, they might be asked to go and ‘play’, down Belfast way.
It’s time once more to cross some borders, and I’ll be calling out “last orders”,
The year it’s nearly ’85, I am still here, I’m still alive, but Berlin needs us;
Public duties some find nifty, but there is me now nearing fifty,
No more Ruskies? Life’s no’ fair, but here in Berlin, there’s millions mair.
I’ve done my time, farewell, adieu, at last I’ve reached my twenty two,
My boxes are packed, I hand back the mace, and I’m off to find the human race;
I’ve lived in hotels and even in tents, shaken hands with my Queen and some Presidents;
A young man left Glasgow in the year ‘63, an old man returned; yes that man was me,
Would I do it again? Of course I’m not barmy, I wouldn’t be here, were it not for the ARMY.
Ronnie. 28 July 2009, my 65th year.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Here's one I wrote for a football forum, around the time of the furore of some folk because some Rangers fans took to wearing England tops. (By the way, most of the guys who were wearing the tops were English, but somehow that fact was conveniently overlooked)
Engerlund Tops (posted on a football forum)
It seems ti me a few oan here, have their knickers in a twist,
about which shirts the bears kin wear, nae wonder I get pissed!
Take a map o' the world, then stick in a pin, I'm sure that you'll find a good bear,
just as proud of their National football team, as most of us are over here.
So, bears from down south and all over the world, wear your National colours with pride,
You are welcome at Ibrox, the home of our team, real Rangers’ have nothing to hide.
The SFA plonkers who mis-rule our game, are the reason for much of our woes,
The freeloading blazers, who think they know all, canny see past the end o' their nose!.
A footballing jersey identifies you, as supporting your team on the park,
It’s not meant to stir up the battles of old, and some are as old as the Ark,
Rabbie Burns pit it better, and in his ain words; build yir forts and yir walls and yir cairns,
For no matter whit colours ye pit oan yir back, for aw that, we're 'Jock Tamson's' bairns.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Heres to the man who kisses his wife,
and kisses his wife alone,
for many a man,kisses another man's wife
when he ought to be kissing his own.
I as a man, kissed another man's wife,
and I'd do it again wi' nae bother,
but to do it I'd have to re-live my life,
for the other man's wife...was my MOTHER.
This one is not meant to offend anyone, just my lighthearted take on "What if" and anyway, it could never happen, could it? ;D
The Polish Painters’ Colourful Revenge
One morning the Pope he arose out of bed, he looked out and he surveyed the scene,
This Vatican’s manky, he said to himsell, in fact it’s the worst that I’ve seen;
His days in the S.S. in World war two, were not wasted, of that he was sure,
A phone call to Scotland, and some old Polish friends, would make this drab Vatican pure:
So, early next day while the Pope was away, the crew they arrived with their stuff,
They worked all through the day with hardly a break, Aye! This crew are good sure enough;
Next morning the Pope from his trip he returned, and the Vatican came into view,
He gazed at the sight, then collapsed in a heap, It wis painted aw RED, WHITE and BLUE;
Alas! I am done for, the pontiff exclaimed, and I’ll just stick ma heid in the oven,
And NEVER again will I pick up a phone, and hire a wee Polish paint crew frae GOVAN!
A recent poem after hearing comments that Remembrance day is 'old fashioned' and 'out of date'. I was happy to remind them that without those who gave their all, they would not be standing there AT ALL, never mind making daft comments.
Your Memories Were Paid For By Others
As the last note of Reveille carries throughout the land,
And old soldiers march off, kept in step by the band,
How long will this country remember?
Will it ever come to pass that some folk let it pass,
And this month will be just called November?
Many decades have passed, even memories lost,
Since our world lost a whole generation,
We should never forget that young men gave their all,
So that we could stand free as a Nation.
The medals, Glengarry’s the Berets and Caps,
Once more put away with respect,
Like the wearers had shown to those fallen young men,
A duty they would never neglect.
So next time that little unseen voice in your ear,
Asks how many minutes have you all been free?
Those names on the Cenotaph, they all ask as one,
Those two minutes you give, are for me.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Ode To The Amethyst
Amethyst, Amethyst, it rolls off the tongue,
The most beautiful gem in production;
Purple colour unique, will grace any boutique,
And protect every wearer ‘gainst seduction.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
A Different Class Is A Palais Girll Lass
Palais girls, Palais girls, you won’t see them hide,
Up on the dance floor, Lindy hop, Palais glide;
Dancing round the handbags, two by two,
Or up beside the wallflowers, no, not you.
Barrowland bint, Barrowland bint, only goes there because she is skint,
Locarno Lil, Locarno Lil, a Yankees pal frae Garnethill,
Albert Annie, Albert Annie, got thrown oot last week, alang wae her granny,
F & F Felicity, F & F Felicity, goes there for a heat ‘cause she’s nae electricity.
No matter the state of your ‘Jivving’ or prancing,
Yes Glasgow’s the place for the gals at the dancing,
Big ones and wee ones and out West the ‘twee’ ones,
But it’s the Dennistoun Palais for the Carol’s and me son.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
God’s Burd
God up above looking down far below,
With his head in his hands, he was so full of woe;
“What have you done with my beautiful names?”
“Are the Esthers, the Ruth’s, and the Rachel’s too tame?”
Where once there were Senga’s and Ina’s galore,
We now have fruit salads like Peaches and more,
At least down in Glasgow, there’s one tops them all,
Yes God’s favourite lass, yes of course Marydoll.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Ode To Magiloo (Wee-Me)
Now why should I leave this wee ode to the last?
Was my clock running fast out of time?
No of course not my friend, it’s just stuck at the end,
And a difficult name for a rhyme.
Now what can one do with the name Magiloo?
And a smashing ‘Wee-Me’ avatar,
I’ve been up hauf the night, so I must get this right,
Magiloo; I’ll just say, “You’re a Star”.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Here is one I have just written that all the 'mammies' will instantly recognise (aye, and some of the dads too) ;D
Mummy’s Christmas Day
When the jingle bells are silent, fancy paper in the bin,
The kids’ new toys discarded like an empty biscuit tin,
The sink is overflowing with the plates of festive cheer,
And dads around the country, flopped on couches swigging beer.
When flustered mums and grannies get a chance to have a rest,
They’ve worked from early morning and they’ve done their very best;
It’s time to put their feet up sip a sherry, maybe two,
And who will do the honours? That’s right lads should be you.
Christmas is a happy time when family comes a calling,
Young lassies showing off new clothes while bairns upstairs are bawling;
Young lads outside on skateboards terrorise the neighbours cats,
The women show their perfumes off, the posh ones show their hats.
Now dads and grown sons raid the fridge and half the New Year booze,
And an extra sherry trifle’s driven grand-dad for a snooze;
All the sozzled aunties on the floor and hokey-cokey,
If this was seen on youtube, they’d all end up in the pokey.
At last the house is silent everyone has left for home,
The living room’s a bombsite and the kitchen King Tuts tomb;
Dad lies snoring on his couch, in his Y fronts and his vest,
Mum wishes she was back at work; she needs a bloody REST.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Grannie’s Knee
It didnae matter where folks reside, a tenement close or a hoose by the Clyde?
Doon the dank dunnies, up pipe clayed sterrs, weans slidin’ doon the banisters,
That’s no’ correct it must be said, the right word is a “balustrade”,
But tenement life is no’ sae dire, when ye sit wae yir granny, beside the fire.
She’ll tell ye stories tae curl yir hair, until much later, yiv nane tae spare,
And grandpa sittin’ hummin’ some tunes, and sookin’ away wae his poke o’ soor plooms,
Maw’s in the scullery making oor tea, feed the men folk first, then the wummin’ and me,
We didnae huv much we jist hud each other, mammy is pregnant, I hope, a wee brother?
Efter the war aw oor hooses the same, and a lot o’ the young men didnae come hame,
Fathers and husbands, uncles and brothers, aw families suffered, just like maist others,
But Glesga Keelies don’t sit still, they didnae back then and they never will,
Whole neighbourhoods cleared, no matter the weather, East End folk pulled closer together.
The bleak years pass, the kiddies grow, still playing in puddles, or in the snow,
The odd bike here, a scooter there, the streets were ours, but noo! Nae mair;
A game o’ peever kept us fit, or a skip wae the lassies, if ye were up for it,
A pair o’ skate’s wid gie ye the wobbles, huv ye tried ti go skates in a street full of cobbles?
Memories, memories, cost you naught, but some poor folk that’s aw they’ve got,
Some families thrived; some not so well; I guess for them that life was hell,
But those that did, and flourished too, it was not luck that pulled them through,
Yes folks I’m sure you will agree, they learned about life, at their Grannies knee.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Vive La France
“Vive la France” et “la Marseilles”, she has given us L’Escargot and mayonnaise,
A cheeky wee Bordeaux or Sauvignon Blanc, to wash down the cuisine, not some cheap plonk;
La Manche is our channel, the islands as well, and Camembert cheese has a very strong smell,
When jewels like the Amethyst reside within thee, then the “Auld Alliance" is well, so; C’est La Vie.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Words
Words can come easy if tools of your trade or you stick in at school like you should,
But some kids don’t do that or some they just can’t, and some teachers are really no’ good;
Some kids can’t be bothered their minds are elsewhere, and that is what’s really so sad,
The lucky ones they have a good life at home, and an interested mammy or dad.
Years ago when reward was the norm for hard work, in your jotter a wee star or more,
The effort put in to stay top of the class, well sadly those days are no more;
The PC brigade have dismantled the work, that made our schools the best worldwide,
No matter how they dress it up I’m afraid, it’s their fault and they’ve nowhere to hide.
So bring back the days of reward for good work, and don’t hold the good children back,
Those with potential will rise to the top, and the teachers can deal with the slack;
Perhaps then we’ll see how good children can be; let all young minds free to aspire,
To question; dissect; to probe and reflect; not stuck with the rest in the mire.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Where Is The Glasgow? (Alternative version)
With thanks, (and apologies), to singer/songwriter Adam McNaughton for giving me the idea.
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
The playing in puddles, the slides in the snow,
When streets were for games not for cars and no crime,
Thank god for the memories, a wonderful time.
The tenements dank where we played hide an’ seek,
Postman’s knock doon the dunnies, a peck oan the cheek,
Kick the can; hurry hame, run aboot oan oor trikes,
While the aulder yins Tarzan like jumped aff the dykes.
The wee stairheid lavies that families share,
Are gone now forever, thank god they’re nae mair,
The Sunday post squares hung aw neat oan a nail,
Whilst at night if yir burstin, ye jist used a pail.
The wash hoose oot back wiz a wee weekly treat,
As the bairns stamped the bedding for granny so sweet,
Hot water wis rare, and the weans had a laugh,
But the blankets got cleaned and the bairns got a bath.
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used ti know,
With a garden oot back where nothing would grow,
A big air raid shelter left ower frae the war,
Each close had its gang hut, och aye but much more.
Each wean hud a mammy, but daddies were few,
And aunties aplenty for me and for you,
We wanted for nowt because that’s aw we had,
And for granny, a cuddle, because she looked sad.
When doon fell a kiddie who skintit a knee,
The nearest wee wifie wid run oot to see,
There wis none o’ this nonsense “he’s no’ wan o’ mine”,
We were aw a big family, well maist of the time.
As weans all together we played as we grew,
The proddy, the catholic the Sikh or the Jew,
Until it was school time then went separate ways,
Whoever thought that up, they must have been dazed?
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
With its churches all full to the brim,
Our bibles were read with conviction and joy,
No distinction 'tween proddy or tim.
The years rolled on by and the tenements fell
People left the old streets, and their church went as well,
The swing parks, the baths, the wee mission hall,
The heart was ripped oot of the city for all.
No more penny rides oan the tramcars for us,
As the caurs changed tae trolleys, the death oan wheels bus,
Our streets became racetracks the weans kept indoors,
And the city’s young kids became burglars and hores.
New housing was built every week it would seem,
Of course they were nice, no matter what scheme,
But something was missing, it seems they forgot,
New places need amenities, pubs an’ shops aye the lot.
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
The trip to the “Barras” the five past eight show,
The pictures, the dancin’, we wanted for naught,
But look at it now, and what have we got?
The schools lost their way when they banished the strap,
And the youngsters are hooked on all sorts of crap,
The crime lords make millions and families are cryin’,
Yes, just look aroon ye, the youngsters are dyin’
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
When a trip into town used to give you a glow,
Now beggars and junkies you meet at each turn,
And look at their faces, no smiles, jist a “Gurn”
What can we do, and what can be done,
To make Glasgow great once again,
Give it back to the people, who helped build it up,
And get rid of the gangsters and scum,
No mean city we’re not, and we never have been,
We’re the salt of the Earth, and then some.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Watching the terrible events unfold in Haiti got me thinking just how lucky some of us are, and what will soon affect lots of youngsters over there.This poem could be about anywhere in the world. Orphans have NO boundaries.
What Price Is Love?
How much does it cost for a mammy’s love?
Asked the young boy curled up in his bed,
How much will it cost me? He asked again;
I just don’t know son, I said.
How much will it cost for a daddy’s love?
The young lad asked with a sigh,
As I turned away and shook my head,
And a teardrop ran down from my eye.
How can you tell a sad lonely child?
That no price could ever be paid,
For the love that he asked, there is no such price,
That could stop him from being afraid.
Why am I sad and so very alone?
Is God up there punishing me?
My heart it was breaking, how could I reply?
And how could I make the lad see?
Brought into this world, no mum and no dad,
An orphan forever it seems,
My tears now were flowing; I must do my best,
To bring true the lonely lad’s dreams.
Later that day, while the child was at play,
I spoke to my darling young wife,
Shall we take the chance? I enquired with a glance,
To give this poor orphan a life.
Of course she replied, as tears welled in her eyes,
We can’t turn and just walk away,
Years later with pride, we both again cried,
For our son; He gets married today.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Love Is
What is it fires up lads and lasses,
That touches all, across the classes,
No scientist can work it out,
But it is there, of that, no doubt.
Men have killed and lived to tell,
And countries; even Empires fell,
And even Kings on high succumb,
To the thing that makes even grown men numb.
Can engineers make it? Inventors create it?
The worlds’ greatest artists at work illustrate it,
No, only a poet with words set to rhyme,
Brings to life what is love, for your sweet Valentine.
It was never a secret or sent from above,
Just nature at work with that whimsy called love,
A dozen Red roses, a card or a ring,
Yes, love is; "A many splendored thing".
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Been a wee while since I posted but my health was not at it's best. Things are 'stable' now but still not (or likely to be) 100%
Recent events down south have stirred me back to 'action'.
Respect
What is respect when it means nought to some?
The, “I’m alright Jack”, kind, with knife or a gun.
Money’s no object, when you get it for free,
No intention of working; That means effort you see.
They’ll risk life and limb to protect their own ‘turf’,
Friends, families and neighbours, even they have no worth.
Young folk die daily from a poisonous ‘wrap’,
But the peddlers don’t care, they keep dealing their crap.
Schools long ago lost the power to teach,
When they lumped all together, so none could outreach,
Yes, the PC brigade ‘dumbed’ the high flyers down,
So no difference now between genius or clown.
So where is the respect our leaders demand?
As they pocket our cash and treat us underhand.
Our judicial system is beyond a joke,
As the criminals sue us, their victims go broke.
Our children have more rights than ever before,
And respect just a word and it means nothing more.
And effort another they can’t comprehend,
They use unearned powers as a means to their end.
So what can be done to sort out this mess?
Shall we ditch human rights? That is anyone’s guess.
But one thing is sure we can’t turn a blind eye,
To do so is folly and our country will die.
So politicians and judges lock yourselves in a room,
And don’t dare come out, ‘till you sort out this gloom,
Re-write our laws, bring them right up to date,
And you better do it soon, or it may be too late.
What about parents, what part did you play?
To encourage your child while at school or at play.
Did you teach right from wrong? Tell them what to expect,
If you did not do that, then they won’t know RESPECT!
Copyright © 2011 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Ronnie I have spoke to the others and they have agreed that you should become the official 'bard' of the Keelies board...the only thing I would say is that you copyright your work as it could be stolen and passed off as someone else's work. I have a copy of the 17th Battalion of the Highland Light Infantry's Battalion Ballads which was a combination of some of the poems that appeared in their trench magazine 'The Outpost' during the Great War. I will copy it for you and give you the copies when you come over to see me next week... ;D
Och listen you lot, can't ye see whit yiv done, yees huv gone and geid me a 'riddy',
an' ther wis ma wife, the love o' ma life, thinkin' ah wis chatin' up some wee 'biddy';
but ah showed her yir posts, noo she's makin' me toast, a job that is no' very hard,
so thanks for kind words, frae yoos fair keelie burdz, and I'll gladly become YOUR site bard.
;D ;D [/i]
Gods Tears
God up in heaven sat down on his throne,
The tears down his cheeks they did flow,
The Angels were sad as they gathered around,
Dear Father, how were you to know?
My children I’m sad, and my heart it is broke,
This creation called man can’t agree,
To love one another the way that I taught,
Don’t they know, when they hurt, they hurt me?
Through the ages I’ve tried, as a good father should,
To make man love his brother as one,
But while some have shone brightly, and that made me proud,
I wish that some others had done.
I gave them the gift to develop and grow,
Many colours, and creeds, even wives,
But all I can see, as I gaze on the scene,
Are my children, at odds, taking lives?
I gave them a voice, and the freedom of choice,
A mistake on my part maybe so,
These tears on my cheeks are not there for me,
But my children, at war down below.
So, what must I do, can I make them see sense?
I just can’t do nothing, or sit on the fence,
If my children don’t stop all this mayhem and pain,
I will end my creation, and start over again.
Gods’ children you are, where ere you reside,
So help stop my tears, come sit by my side,
Let me tell you again, it’s still just as true,
That you do unto others, you would have done unto you.
Give a hand to your brother; please make him your friend,
The world so much better would be,
Gods tears would be gone, and the family of man,
Once again all together would be.
©Ronnie Hughes, Glasgow , Scotland , September 2001
Three Strangers Came To My Home Town.
Three strangers came to my home town, and each had travelled far,
One by boat and one by plane, and one by motor car;
They did not know each other then, but this was soon to change,
And when you know the reason why, you will not find it strange.
The first man did not ask the way, to his intended goal,
but stepped out briskly on his way, to keep out winter cold;
His destination was of course, a place well known to some,
the reason now he did not ask, the poor man he was dumb. (Trauma)
The second man, a lonely man, he did not stop to chat,
But made his way into the town, he was quite sure of that;
And at his goal a friend to meet, he only knew as Geoff,
A big smile crossed his face just then, like him, his friend was deaf. (Shell shock)
The third man heard the traffic noise, directions he did ask,
His final destination made, and that was quite some task;
No night or day for this poor man, I’m sure that you will find,
that this man had his problems too; yes this poor man was blind. (Mustard gas)
Now why should these three men arrive, not knowing one another?
They travelled far to pay respects unto a fallen brother;
Not one that they could call their kin, but one that they all knew,
The same as them my friends of course, he's known to me and you.
The blind man took the deaf man's arm; the deaf man took the mute,
and made their way to the poppy wreaths, to give their own salute;
they bowed their heads like you and I, as each year we get older,
and pay respects to the one we know, as our brother, the Unknown Soldier.
©Ronnie Hughes 9th May 2009.
Lenny The 50 Year Old Louse Fri Luss
(A lousy poem if ever ah heard wan)
My name is Lenny, a wee louse frae Luss,
Came here years ago oan an auld clapped oot bus,
Hitched a lift oan the heid of a wee guy called Vince,
Got lost at a campsite, been here ever since.
Ma maw wis a lousy wee nit fri Drumoyne,
She knew aw the songs that were sung at the Boyne,
The Old Orange Flute she hud aff ti a “T”,
Till her louse of a man ran away wi’ a flea.
She took it real bad and she drank quite a few,
‘till she foamed at the mooth, it wis friggin’ shampoo,
It was then I met Vince; we were soon oan wir ways,
How wis ah ti know, it wis his holidays?
Wi a pack oan his back, sturdy boots oan his feet,
He marched to the bus station, doon Waterloo Street,
“Hey mr conductor, kin a smoke oan yir bus?”
“Aye, sure son, of course, it’s a long way ti Luss”.
It wis strange there at first, aye, too strange indeed,
Then I heard something else rustling oan Vinnys wee heid,
“Hullaw there ma china” cried a voice fri the shed,
“Ah’m Lisa fri Lambhill, jist oota ma bed”.
Her face it wis ugly, though her legs they were nice,
Well whit’d ye expect oan a heid full o’ lice?
Lisa, the lousy wee nit fri Lambhill,
Sorted oot aw ma needs, noo that wis some thrill.
By the time we arrived, I wis fair puckered oot,
But wee randy Vince, he changed intae his suit,
It wis aff ti a barn dance and we had no say,
Vince wis determined, his end wis away!
Aw the lice oan his heid they hung oan fur their lives,
As a big fight ensued, and oot came the knives,
There wis bitin’ and stabbin’, the odd bit o’ heid buttin’,
Then Vinny appeared like a lamb dressed as mutton.
“Right yoos bunch o’ cheuchters, ma names Vinny Fraser,
Ah’m up frae Drumoyne, wi’ ma trusty wee razor”,
“Ochone ‘zat a fact”, said a big lad frae Rhu,
And he walloped poor Vince ower the heid wi’ a cue.
Noo Vince got aff easy, just cuts oan his heid,
But ma lovely wee Lisa fri Lambhill wis deid,
My heart it was broken, oh what can one do?
With the love of your life, sconned ti’ death by a cue!
With tears of such sadness, I near lost the rag,
As I put ma ex louse, in a broon paper bag,
With one hefty pull, o’er my shoulder pit Lisa,
Hopped aff Vinnys heid, and went aff fur a pizza.
I crawled roon the loch fur six days and six nights,
And then found the graveyard, fur Glasgow’s deid mites,
Laid ti rest ma wee Lisa, and said a wee prayer,
Serves ye right ya wee nit ye, getting’ in other peoples hair.
So, the next time in Luss, if yir scratchin’ yir heid,
Don’t scratch it too hard, or ye might wake the deid,
Be very afraid when ye go spend a penny,
‘Cause that lavvy in Luss, is where you’ll find Lenny!
©Ronnie Hughes 2009
I was talking to a couple of my old army buddies a couple of weeks back, about aw the places we had been, and some of the things that happened to us. Daft wee things that the folks back home would never believe, even if we swore they were true, so I set to work on this one about a time when we were posted to Gibraltar when Franco closed the border in 1968.
In Gibraltar there are two "troops" of apes. The official troop who live up on the top, and are looked after by a senior NCO from the Ordnance Corps. They do indeed have Army numbers (same as soldiers) and the NCO's job is to make sure all are present and correct each day (just like our army 'muster' parades). The "other" troop consist of 'wild' apes who were ousted by the main bunch years earlier, and run free on the lower slopes, living on handouts from tourists, or what they can steal from unwary passers by, or, in our case, inattentive jocks on guard duty half way up the rock.
So, here we go....
A Muster Parade With A Difference
Many times’ I’ve been abroad, and many places been,
But this one takes the biscuit folks, as the strangest sight I’ve seen;
Muster parades are common stuff, we fall in at attention,
In open order ramrod stiff, we’re ready for inspection.
But not this muster I espied, in a not so far off land,
A senior NCO tried hard, to call his ‘troops’ to hand;
He stood there shouting out their names, “Haw Sampson, over here”,
But nothing moved and no-one stirred, he got a rubber ear.
The Sergeant he was angry now, his face creased with a frown,
Each absentee was noted, on his clip board names put down;
God help these tardy troops I thought, they’re really for it now,
And to my duties I returned, it’s nearly time for chow.
The guard was changed and hungry Jocks approach the now lit stoves,
When a rabble of hairy bandits swarmed, right through our camp in droves;
We saw them off and pleased as punch, another battle won,
Till we looked for our compo rations, and the buggers they were gone.
These bandits they were different, they had numbers, ranks and names,
And in the British Army too, and this was just their games;
A lesson we did learn that day, was not to watch the clock,
But high above Gibraltar town, these apes upon the Rock.
So next time when on muster and you fall in on the square,
Remember a poor wee Sergeant and his monkeys over there;
Guard duty is a grind I know, parades are just for fashions,
Keep wan eye oot fur the enemy; and the other on your bloody rations!
©Ronnie Hughes ,31st July 2009
I got the idea for this one from my days growing up. Every street with tenements had wee wifies sitting at their windaes aw day,especially during the summer, watching the kids playing and chatting to each other, sometimes these chats would involve hawf the street. ;D I suppose they were the 'original' neighbourhood watch.
The shortage of young men due to the war meant that there were bound to be some lassies who missed out in the marriage game. Every big street was bound to have a Brenda (no slight on any Brenda's on here)
The Ballad of Brenda McGhee (Or: A Burglars Lament)
In the town of Port Glasgow there lived a young lass, in a flat overlooking the sea,
That’s where I first clapped my eyes oan the sight, I hope never again for to see.
The ugliest burd in the whole bleedin’ world, yes folks you kin take it from me,
Meet Brenda McDonald McFadzean Coltrane, Fitzpatrick McGregor McGhee.
To say she wis ugly, wis putting it mild, as she sat by her windae aw day,
Gazing longingly oot as the world passed her by, in the hope that a boy came her way.
Twa bandy legs, and a wee crooked nose, Ailsa Craig wis the size of her rump,
Wi’ wan squinty eye, and a 52 chest, not forgetting that she had a hump.
Poor Brenda wis lonely, of that there’s no doubt, and boyfriends a no- no it seems,
As I looked in her eye, and she gave me a wink, not me pal, aye jist in yir dreams.
It seems such a shame, as I toodled aff hame, leaving Brenda alone at her sill,
There’s some ugly burds that kin capture a lad, of course there are some never will.
One day came to pass, this ugly young lass, left her windae ti’ go make some toast,
When in through the windae a burglar he came, and very soon wished he wis lost.
Wee Brenda she caught him alone in her room, as he rifled the loot frae her hoose,
This is ma chance, thought wee Brenda at last, as her boobs from her bra she let loose.
Wee Joe the burglar looked aghast, his face wis as white as a sheet,
Of aw the hooses he picked tae tan and whit a god awful sight for ti’ meet.
Aw Christ whit is this, the burglar enquired, I only came in for yir loot,
That’s OK son, said wee Brenda with glee, only two weeks ti go, then yir oot.
The fortnight flew in and wee Brenda wis glad; at long last she’d captured a boy,
Virginity gone and two weeks of pure lust, the burglar wid make a good toy.
It’s fair ti’ say Joe didnae see it that way, he wis knackered and right puckered oot,
He longed for the day, he had to escape, doon the pawn wi’ the ugly hags loot.
Some years doon the line, wee Joe doing time, in his cell he jist let his mind wander,
That time in Port Glasgow he robbed the wrang hoose, aye, whit a major blunder.
Still sat at her windae wis Brenda McGhee, she wis smilin’ for aw she was worth,
There by her side was her 5-year-old pride, a wan eyed humpy backit wee dwarf.
This tale has a moral, and, yes it is true, ugly hags can get boyfriends, aye, even you,
Don’t sit at your windae, watch life pass you by, go make some toast, or even a pie.
Remember wee Brenda, the ugliest burd, that’s ever been this side of Oban,
Just make sure that when you leave your room, that your windae on life is left open.
Ronnie Hughes 1995
Wullie The Wee Whelk Frae Largs
Wee Wullie the whelk, he fell oot wi’ his pal,
A limpet called Larry frae Larne,
No reason wis geid for the wee fa’ing oot,
But Larry wis meaning no harm.
It transpired oan a Thursday, the day before lent,
That Wullie wis aff oan his runs,
And Larry wis stuck oan a rock it wid seem,
Humpin’ granite wi’ two of his sons.
A lobster called Fred, got oota his bed,
And telt the wee shelfish ti stoapit,
I’ve been up aw night, wi’ you pair o’ e,
Gies a knife and y’ill end up like Bobbit.
Wee Wullie wis wonky, no’ feeling himsell,
He went for a walk and some patter,
He took aff his shell and he threw it away,
And wis jist like a fish oota watter.
It seems the wee snail ended up in a pail,
Oan the end o’ a hook fur some cod,
When the hook jagged his arse he wis crying aloud,
Aw naw, help ma boab, oh my god.
The fisherman stood well aback frae the quay,
He looked roon at his pals wi’ disdain.
It’s only a whelk said the fisherman loud,
And the hook up its arse is its ain.
Wee Wullie and Larry are noo best o’ friends,
‘cause Wullie he landed in Ulster,
and Larry wis glad that wee Wullie brought o’er,
aw the friggin’ wee whelks he could muster.
Ronnie (fishermans friend) , 1993.
A Wee Banana
A wee banana took a turn, and thought that he wis lunch,
Until he saw his mates aroon, a friggin awfi bunch,
He peeled away and soon wis nude, his skin wis in the bin,
Haw missus, where’s these sandwiches, that I am going in?
The onion thought that this wis mad, feck this ah’m nearly greetin’
Till lettuce, ah’ll be having you, took veggies to a meeting.
The wee cucumber gied a burp, yes that’s whit they jist do,
Spring onions jiggin in ma fridge, and mushrooms up ma flue!
The cabbage sat and wondered why, the pot wis boiling mad,
Then he wis chopped and popped aboard, it’s really friggin sad,
The mince sat in the corner, not saying a bloody word,
You veggie bassas get ti fu**, and don’t you touch ma burd!
The wee Banana oan the piece, wis watching with disdain,
Then Tam the Spam came oot the fridge and he wis oan his ain.
Yoos lucky bassas aw yoos veg, yees aw huv aw yir skin,
Yees don’t know just whit hardship is, when ye canny get oot a tin.
The wee banana took a look, he didnae find it sad,
That other plants were getting ate, he wis mighty feckin’ glad,
Haw yoos he said ti the green leafed plants, yees better shut yir gub,
That bassas in the kitchen noo and he’s looking fur some grub!
The lettuce looked up frae his plate, feck this he said ah’m limp,
And you ya feckin turnip, yir nothin’ but a pimp,
The wee potato took the hump, said he wid take no lip,
And true ti form the daft wee chunt he ended up a chip.
Banana said afore he left, this place is feckin’ weird,
This kitchens friggin manky, and the breid it hus a beard
The cabbage ran right through us aw, the tumshie mashed his heid,
But then ah took a big big bite, banana!.............you are deid!
Ronnie 1990.
Ode Tae A Livers' Wurst
Apologies all for the lack of a rhyme,
on the National poetry day,
but me and ma liver had a doaktur tae meet,
in the "Southern" which is over my way.
We sat doon fur a chat, aboot this and then that,
then he telt me he needed mair blood,
then a big bloody jack-booted dispenser of pain,
jabbed ma erm and it gushed like a flood.
"Jeezus christ missus nurse, yiv jist made me feel worse",
"Huv ye left me enough tae get hame?"
"Ach it's jist a wee prick, and yir no' aw that sick",
"And the needle and you share a name".
It was soon time tae go, so ah said cheerio,
"See ye later" she cried fit tae burst,
then I ran oot the door and I cursed and I swore,
and I shouted, "No' if ah see ye first".
Ronnie or Bloodless Bard(er) If yees see a "bloodless" coup, I've jist been fur a top up) ;D ;D
Another I wrote on my birthday in July.
An OAP Looks Back
Barely past my eighteenth year, I signed to serve my queen,
Got sent off ower to Germany, and sights I’d never seen;
Hunners o’ sojers everywhere, Canuks and Jocks and Taffs,
And best of all were the downtown bars, the Frauline’s and the laughs.
Now Jocks and Taffs got on just fine, we had the time o’ our lives,
But these wee “Van Doos” up the road, they bassas aw hud knives;
Fights oft ensued o’er daft wee things, not the things that we were needing,
Then the shout went up; ”Don’t punch him son; just wait till yir feet are bleeding”.
My twenties came and off again, we flew off to the sun,
The isle of Aphrodite called, blue berets, loaded gun;
Things were fine, the sun, the wine, and life was good indeed,
But then up popped the ‘carpet shop’, one wrong move, we were deid!
Time moved on, and so did we; back home, Fort George, out by the sea,
I gave up frauline’s, gained a wife, and so began my married life;
Fresh oot the Calton, my vision of heaven, seems so long ago, Martha Street ’67,
Life couldn’t be better, it really is great, and she bore us a son, Christmas day ’68.
Life way up north was different yet fun, but too soon once more we were heading for sun,
It seems Senor Franco, a Spanish bampot, took the hump with Brits so he turfed oot the lot;
Up on the ‘Rock’ the apes were in fashion, till the wee hairy bassas ran off wi’ the rations,
‘Emergency’ over; back home once again; the "Strath" and the "Cally" or some feckin’ glen.
Soon we departed, the Fort far behind, and we headed “dahn sarf”, oh what will we find?
Kiwi barracks in Bulford, lots more all around, and Salisbury plain, was our training ground;
Anywhere in the world and it’s off like a shot, but what’s coming next, aye right, we did not,
The day had arrived we formed up for muster, a new era started, our forays to ULSTER.
At first it was funny yet harder for some, not to mention ‘B’ specials; we took aw their guns,
History re-written, yes we were there, so it’s goodbye dear friend, the old “British Square”.
Danger! Of course yes, no frills and no tricks, nothing so fancy, we were the first “BRICKS”.
So it’s off back to blighty, another job done, hello Singapore lads, jungle warfare’s begun.
I’m getting much older but still I am fit, after three weeks up jungle I now smell like scheidt.
We practice our new skills, chop doon some trees, it fair puffs ye oot at a hunner degrees;
Its hame tae the wife, and aff wi’ the breeches, a wee present hen, ma erse hus got leeches,
After a scrub, nay mair ‘guests’ oan ma feet, we headed down town; ‘Kai-ties’, Bugis street.
A funny wee posting, this Anzuk brigade, only there for a wee while, I wish we had stayed,
But this is the army and we don’t stand still, if we do not do it then no bugger will;
Once more we are packed, and ready to leave, where to? God almighty, its Embra I believe,
Ach well there’s the castle, the Tattoo and fun, and up on the ramparts the one o’clock gun.
Life’s moving on now, years catching up, yet more tours in Ulster for this older pup,
Tattoos aplenty but not on my skin, there’s nowhere to put them, on someone so thin;
One day in Belfast, it’s etched on my brain, it was March ’71; we lost three of our ain,
The IRA scum, just desserts they did get, and three young lost comrades we’ll NEVER forget.
The clock’s moving faster, as older I get, we’re still stuck in Redford, did someone forget?
Then up popped he, that army schemer, pack up again lads, you’re heading to Hemer;
Now in my forties, my voice getting husky, back to the Rhineland and some pesky Ruskie,
Our wives it is certain of stern stuff are made, as we venture forth to our armoured Brigade.
Life can be fun, and yes full of surprises, but no more than I was when God gave out prizes,
Me and the wife we just thought we were done, happy with life, and a growing up son;
So here am I with whisky and water, a happy Drum Major and an unplanned wee daughter,
Now older and wiser, yes that’s me, the wife bought a chastity belt, and she kept the key.
The training was hard but the call outs were worse, the 3am “call out” the infantry curse,
The tracks often broke aye, chest deep in mud, “hello zero alpha” this radio’s a dud;
By God we were ready for world war three, my section commanders, my driver and me,
No chance of killing some Ruskies at last, Palace barracks was calling, oh my what a blast.
The constant moving takes its toll, on weary bodies mind and soul,
The freezing winters, Soltau plain, could see young soldiers weep with pain;
And rivers crossed at dead of night, non swimmers fearful, stiff with fright,
Now dry clothes on and packs on back, no rest for us, platoon attack.
But Palace brought the jocks respite, to Hollywood they went at night,
They did their best to re-arrange, some furniture in night clubs strange;
Got drunk? Of course, that’s what they do, as once did I, and even you,
Tomorrow, yet another day, they might be asked to go and ‘play’, down Belfast way.
It’s time once more to cross some borders, and I’ll be calling out “last orders”,
The year it’s nearly ’85, I am still here, I’m still alive, but Berlin needs us;
Public duties some find nifty, but there is me now nearing fifty,
No more Ruskies? Life’s no’ fair, but here in Berlin, there’s millions mair.
I’ve done my time, farewell, adieu, at last I’ve reached my twenty two,
My boxes are packed, I hand back the mace, and I’m off to find the human race;
I’ve lived in hotels and even in tents, shaken hands with my Queen and some Presidents;
A young man left Glasgow in the year ‘63, an old man returned; yes that man was me,
Would I do it again? Of course I’m not barmy, I wouldn’t be here, were it not for the ARMY.
Ronnie. 28 July 2009, my 65th year.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Here's one I wrote for a football forum, around the time of the furore of some folk because some Rangers fans took to wearing England tops. (By the way, most of the guys who were wearing the tops were English, but somehow that fact was conveniently overlooked)
Engerlund Tops (posted on a football forum)
It seems ti me a few oan here, have their knickers in a twist,
about which shirts the bears kin wear, nae wonder I get pissed!
Take a map o' the world, then stick in a pin, I'm sure that you'll find a good bear,
just as proud of their National football team, as most of us are over here.
So, bears from down south and all over the world, wear your National colours with pride,
You are welcome at Ibrox, the home of our team, real Rangers’ have nothing to hide.
The SFA plonkers who mis-rule our game, are the reason for much of our woes,
The freeloading blazers, who think they know all, canny see past the end o' their nose!.
A footballing jersey identifies you, as supporting your team on the park,
It’s not meant to stir up the battles of old, and some are as old as the Ark,
Rabbie Burns pit it better, and in his ain words; build yir forts and yir walls and yir cairns,
For no matter whit colours ye pit oan yir back, for aw that, we're 'Jock Tamson's' bairns.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Heres to the man who kisses his wife,
and kisses his wife alone,
for many a man,kisses another man's wife
when he ought to be kissing his own.
I as a man, kissed another man's wife,
and I'd do it again wi' nae bother,
but to do it I'd have to re-live my life,
for the other man's wife...was my MOTHER.
This one is not meant to offend anyone, just my lighthearted take on "What if" and anyway, it could never happen, could it? ;D
The Polish Painters’ Colourful Revenge
One morning the Pope he arose out of bed, he looked out and he surveyed the scene,
This Vatican’s manky, he said to himsell, in fact it’s the worst that I’ve seen;
His days in the S.S. in World war two, were not wasted, of that he was sure,
A phone call to Scotland, and some old Polish friends, would make this drab Vatican pure:
So, early next day while the Pope was away, the crew they arrived with their stuff,
They worked all through the day with hardly a break, Aye! This crew are good sure enough;
Next morning the Pope from his trip he returned, and the Vatican came into view,
He gazed at the sight, then collapsed in a heap, It wis painted aw RED, WHITE and BLUE;
Alas! I am done for, the pontiff exclaimed, and I’ll just stick ma heid in the oven,
And NEVER again will I pick up a phone, and hire a wee Polish paint crew frae GOVAN!
A recent poem after hearing comments that Remembrance day is 'old fashioned' and 'out of date'. I was happy to remind them that without those who gave their all, they would not be standing there AT ALL, never mind making daft comments.
Your Memories Were Paid For By Others
As the last note of Reveille carries throughout the land,
And old soldiers march off, kept in step by the band,
How long will this country remember?
Will it ever come to pass that some folk let it pass,
And this month will be just called November?
Many decades have passed, even memories lost,
Since our world lost a whole generation,
We should never forget that young men gave their all,
So that we could stand free as a Nation.
The medals, Glengarry’s the Berets and Caps,
Once more put away with respect,
Like the wearers had shown to those fallen young men,
A duty they would never neglect.
So next time that little unseen voice in your ear,
Asks how many minutes have you all been free?
Those names on the Cenotaph, they all ask as one,
Those two minutes you give, are for me.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Ode To The Amethyst
Amethyst, Amethyst, it rolls off the tongue,
The most beautiful gem in production;
Purple colour unique, will grace any boutique,
And protect every wearer ‘gainst seduction.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
A Different Class Is A Palais Girll Lass
Palais girls, Palais girls, you won’t see them hide,
Up on the dance floor, Lindy hop, Palais glide;
Dancing round the handbags, two by two,
Or up beside the wallflowers, no, not you.
Barrowland bint, Barrowland bint, only goes there because she is skint,
Locarno Lil, Locarno Lil, a Yankees pal frae Garnethill,
Albert Annie, Albert Annie, got thrown oot last week, alang wae her granny,
F & F Felicity, F & F Felicity, goes there for a heat ‘cause she’s nae electricity.
No matter the state of your ‘Jivving’ or prancing,
Yes Glasgow’s the place for the gals at the dancing,
Big ones and wee ones and out West the ‘twee’ ones,
But it’s the Dennistoun Palais for the Carol’s and me son.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
God’s Burd
God up above looking down far below,
With his head in his hands, he was so full of woe;
“What have you done with my beautiful names?”
“Are the Esthers, the Ruth’s, and the Rachel’s too tame?”
Where once there were Senga’s and Ina’s galore,
We now have fruit salads like Peaches and more,
At least down in Glasgow, there’s one tops them all,
Yes God’s favourite lass, yes of course Marydoll.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Ode To Magiloo (Wee-Me)
Now why should I leave this wee ode to the last?
Was my clock running fast out of time?
No of course not my friend, it’s just stuck at the end,
And a difficult name for a rhyme.
Now what can one do with the name Magiloo?
And a smashing ‘Wee-Me’ avatar,
I’ve been up hauf the night, so I must get this right,
Magiloo; I’ll just say, “You’re a Star”.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Here is one I have just written that all the 'mammies' will instantly recognise (aye, and some of the dads too) ;D
Mummy’s Christmas Day
When the jingle bells are silent, fancy paper in the bin,
The kids’ new toys discarded like an empty biscuit tin,
The sink is overflowing with the plates of festive cheer,
And dads around the country, flopped on couches swigging beer.
When flustered mums and grannies get a chance to have a rest,
They’ve worked from early morning and they’ve done their very best;
It’s time to put their feet up sip a sherry, maybe two,
And who will do the honours? That’s right lads should be you.
Christmas is a happy time when family comes a calling,
Young lassies showing off new clothes while bairns upstairs are bawling;
Young lads outside on skateboards terrorise the neighbours cats,
The women show their perfumes off, the posh ones show their hats.
Now dads and grown sons raid the fridge and half the New Year booze,
And an extra sherry trifle’s driven grand-dad for a snooze;
All the sozzled aunties on the floor and hokey-cokey,
If this was seen on youtube, they’d all end up in the pokey.
At last the house is silent everyone has left for home,
The living room’s a bombsite and the kitchen King Tuts tomb;
Dad lies snoring on his couch, in his Y fronts and his vest,
Mum wishes she was back at work; she needs a bloody REST.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Grannie’s Knee
It didnae matter where folks reside, a tenement close or a hoose by the Clyde?
Doon the dank dunnies, up pipe clayed sterrs, weans slidin’ doon the banisters,
That’s no’ correct it must be said, the right word is a “balustrade”,
But tenement life is no’ sae dire, when ye sit wae yir granny, beside the fire.
She’ll tell ye stories tae curl yir hair, until much later, yiv nane tae spare,
And grandpa sittin’ hummin’ some tunes, and sookin’ away wae his poke o’ soor plooms,
Maw’s in the scullery making oor tea, feed the men folk first, then the wummin’ and me,
We didnae huv much we jist hud each other, mammy is pregnant, I hope, a wee brother?
Efter the war aw oor hooses the same, and a lot o’ the young men didnae come hame,
Fathers and husbands, uncles and brothers, aw families suffered, just like maist others,
But Glesga Keelies don’t sit still, they didnae back then and they never will,
Whole neighbourhoods cleared, no matter the weather, East End folk pulled closer together.
The bleak years pass, the kiddies grow, still playing in puddles, or in the snow,
The odd bike here, a scooter there, the streets were ours, but noo! Nae mair;
A game o’ peever kept us fit, or a skip wae the lassies, if ye were up for it,
A pair o’ skate’s wid gie ye the wobbles, huv ye tried ti go skates in a street full of cobbles?
Memories, memories, cost you naught, but some poor folk that’s aw they’ve got,
Some families thrived; some not so well; I guess for them that life was hell,
But those that did, and flourished too, it was not luck that pulled them through,
Yes folks I’m sure you will agree, they learned about life, at their Grannies knee.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Vive La France
“Vive la France” et “la Marseilles”, she has given us L’Escargot and mayonnaise,
A cheeky wee Bordeaux or Sauvignon Blanc, to wash down the cuisine, not some cheap plonk;
La Manche is our channel, the islands as well, and Camembert cheese has a very strong smell,
When jewels like the Amethyst reside within thee, then the “Auld Alliance" is well, so; C’est La Vie.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Words
Words can come easy if tools of your trade or you stick in at school like you should,
But some kids don’t do that or some they just can’t, and some teachers are really no’ good;
Some kids can’t be bothered their minds are elsewhere, and that is what’s really so sad,
The lucky ones they have a good life at home, and an interested mammy or dad.
Years ago when reward was the norm for hard work, in your jotter a wee star or more,
The effort put in to stay top of the class, well sadly those days are no more;
The PC brigade have dismantled the work, that made our schools the best worldwide,
No matter how they dress it up I’m afraid, it’s their fault and they’ve nowhere to hide.
So bring back the days of reward for good work, and don’t hold the good children back,
Those with potential will rise to the top, and the teachers can deal with the slack;
Perhaps then we’ll see how good children can be; let all young minds free to aspire,
To question; dissect; to probe and reflect; not stuck with the rest in the mire.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Where Is The Glasgow? (Alternative version)
With thanks, (and apologies), to singer/songwriter Adam McNaughton for giving me the idea.
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
The playing in puddles, the slides in the snow,
When streets were for games not for cars and no crime,
Thank god for the memories, a wonderful time.
The tenements dank where we played hide an’ seek,
Postman’s knock doon the dunnies, a peck oan the cheek,
Kick the can; hurry hame, run aboot oan oor trikes,
While the aulder yins Tarzan like jumped aff the dykes.
The wee stairheid lavies that families share,
Are gone now forever, thank god they’re nae mair,
The Sunday post squares hung aw neat oan a nail,
Whilst at night if yir burstin, ye jist used a pail.
The wash hoose oot back wiz a wee weekly treat,
As the bairns stamped the bedding for granny so sweet,
Hot water wis rare, and the weans had a laugh,
But the blankets got cleaned and the bairns got a bath.
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used ti know,
With a garden oot back where nothing would grow,
A big air raid shelter left ower frae the war,
Each close had its gang hut, och aye but much more.
Each wean hud a mammy, but daddies were few,
And aunties aplenty for me and for you,
We wanted for nowt because that’s aw we had,
And for granny, a cuddle, because she looked sad.
When doon fell a kiddie who skintit a knee,
The nearest wee wifie wid run oot to see,
There wis none o’ this nonsense “he’s no’ wan o’ mine”,
We were aw a big family, well maist of the time.
As weans all together we played as we grew,
The proddy, the catholic the Sikh or the Jew,
Until it was school time then went separate ways,
Whoever thought that up, they must have been dazed?
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
With its churches all full to the brim,
Our bibles were read with conviction and joy,
No distinction 'tween proddy or tim.
The years rolled on by and the tenements fell
People left the old streets, and their church went as well,
The swing parks, the baths, the wee mission hall,
The heart was ripped oot of the city for all.
No more penny rides oan the tramcars for us,
As the caurs changed tae trolleys, the death oan wheels bus,
Our streets became racetracks the weans kept indoors,
And the city’s young kids became burglars and hores.
New housing was built every week it would seem,
Of course they were nice, no matter what scheme,
But something was missing, it seems they forgot,
New places need amenities, pubs an’ shops aye the lot.
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
The trip to the “Barras” the five past eight show,
The pictures, the dancin’, we wanted for naught,
But look at it now, and what have we got?
The schools lost their way when they banished the strap,
And the youngsters are hooked on all sorts of crap,
The crime lords make millions and families are cryin’,
Yes, just look aroon ye, the youngsters are dyin’
Oh where is the Glasgow that I used to know,
When a trip into town used to give you a glow,
Now beggars and junkies you meet at each turn,
And look at their faces, no smiles, jist a “Gurn”
What can we do, and what can be done,
To make Glasgow great once again,
Give it back to the people, who helped build it up,
And get rid of the gangsters and scum,
No mean city we’re not, and we never have been,
We’re the salt of the Earth, and then some.
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Watching the terrible events unfold in Haiti got me thinking just how lucky some of us are, and what will soon affect lots of youngsters over there.This poem could be about anywhere in the world. Orphans have NO boundaries.
What Price Is Love?
How much does it cost for a mammy’s love?
Asked the young boy curled up in his bed,
How much will it cost me? He asked again;
I just don’t know son, I said.
How much will it cost for a daddy’s love?
The young lad asked with a sigh,
As I turned away and shook my head,
And a teardrop ran down from my eye.
How can you tell a sad lonely child?
That no price could ever be paid,
For the love that he asked, there is no such price,
That could stop him from being afraid.
Why am I sad and so very alone?
Is God up there punishing me?
My heart it was breaking, how could I reply?
And how could I make the lad see?
Brought into this world, no mum and no dad,
An orphan forever it seems,
My tears now were flowing; I must do my best,
To bring true the lonely lad’s dreams.
Later that day, while the child was at play,
I spoke to my darling young wife,
Shall we take the chance? I enquired with a glance,
To give this poor orphan a life.
Of course she replied, as tears welled in her eyes,
We can’t turn and just walk away,
Years later with pride, we both again cried,
For our son; He gets married today.
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Love Is
What is it fires up lads and lasses,
That touches all, across the classes,
No scientist can work it out,
But it is there, of that, no doubt.
Men have killed and lived to tell,
And countries; even Empires fell,
And even Kings on high succumb,
To the thing that makes even grown men numb.
Can engineers make it? Inventors create it?
The worlds’ greatest artists at work illustrate it,
No, only a poet with words set to rhyme,
Brings to life what is love, for your sweet Valentine.
It was never a secret or sent from above,
Just nature at work with that whimsy called love,
A dozen Red roses, a card or a ring,
Yes, love is; "A many splendored thing".
Copyright © 2010 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Been a wee while since I posted but my health was not at it's best. Things are 'stable' now but still not (or likely to be) 100%
Recent events down south have stirred me back to 'action'.
Respect
What is respect when it means nought to some?
The, “I’m alright Jack”, kind, with knife or a gun.
Money’s no object, when you get it for free,
No intention of working; That means effort you see.
They’ll risk life and limb to protect their own ‘turf’,
Friends, families and neighbours, even they have no worth.
Young folk die daily from a poisonous ‘wrap’,
But the peddlers don’t care, they keep dealing their crap.
Schools long ago lost the power to teach,
When they lumped all together, so none could outreach,
Yes, the PC brigade ‘dumbed’ the high flyers down,
So no difference now between genius or clown.
So where is the respect our leaders demand?
As they pocket our cash and treat us underhand.
Our judicial system is beyond a joke,
As the criminals sue us, their victims go broke.
Our children have more rights than ever before,
And respect just a word and it means nothing more.
And effort another they can’t comprehend,
They use unearned powers as a means to their end.
So what can be done to sort out this mess?
Shall we ditch human rights? That is anyone’s guess.
But one thing is sure we can’t turn a blind eye,
To do so is folly and our country will die.
So politicians and judges lock yourselves in a room,
And don’t dare come out, ‘till you sort out this gloom,
Re-write our laws, bring them right up to date,
And you better do it soon, or it may be too late.
What about parents, what part did you play?
To encourage your child while at school or at play.
Did you teach right from wrong? Tell them what to expect,
If you did not do that, then they won’t know RESPECT!
Copyright © 2011 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Ronnie I have spoke to the others and they have agreed that you should become the official 'bard' of the Keelies board...the only thing I would say is that you copyright your work as it could be stolen and passed off as someone else's work. I have a copy of the 17th Battalion of the Highland Light Infantry's Battalion Ballads which was a combination of some of the poems that appeared in their trench magazine 'The Outpost' during the Great War. I will copy it for you and give you the copies when you come over to see me next week... ;D
Och listen you lot, can't ye see whit yiv done, yees huv gone and geid me a 'riddy',
an' ther wis ma wife, the love o' ma life, thinkin' ah wis chatin' up some wee 'biddy';
but ah showed her yir posts, noo she's makin' me toast, a job that is no' very hard,
so thanks for kind words, frae yoos fair keelie burdz, and I'll gladly become YOUR site bard.
;D ;D [/i]