Boldly through the cauld' batters on the sonneteer
wae thick work boots an a sobering heed;    
blisters form on his heels and start tae bleed,
as the new builds part and the river appears.
Doon by the clyde, the old sickly mistress,
he sparks a snout in the ease of the mornin’.
The usual grey sky turns dark wae a warnin’,
but he draws in deeply and breathes out stress.
If only I could follow him further through the city.
If only I could ask how tae write upon these streets.
Should I run with the crowd and speak over beats?
Or speak in concrete and make them buildings seem witty?  
I hink I’ll let this river run until the day I know
how tae speak and spit wae the tongue of Glasgow.