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R Dickson Jan 2015
Remember I told you about the puddle,
That forms outside my door,
See when it rains hard,
It's just grown more and more,

The only way to sort it,
Is to lift the grating free,
And clear the mud out,
It's easy you'll see,

The council were here this morning,
Complete wi' brush and *****,
Lifting out the grating,
That was blocking the puddle it made,

Water all brushed away,
Thinking it was fine,
Men fixed on the grating
Back on the van they climb,

Unknown to the council,
The water's not drained free,
They hadn't looked down the road,
All blocked up at twenty three,

I hope they come back,
And sort the mess they made,
The gutter needs sorted,
They need a draining *****,

The draining ***** is a thin one,
To get into tight spots,
The way that it should be used,
Is not by council clots,

The council are sure to ****** up,
Any job they undertake,
The way that they were clearing it,
Was one hell of a mistake,

I could do the job,
I could do it for free,
I'm not like the council,
It's just the job for me,

So if you've got a job,
For the council or maybe me,
Send me an email,
A stamped letter is 50p
R Dickson Jan 2015
I'm just back frae The Kirk
Doon Canongate way,
Afore yi get tae Parliament,
That was brand new yesterday,

Way back tae the 1700's
A poet in his grave,
Fergusson the poetry man,
He couldnae be saved,

Banging his heid  in a fa'
Tumbling doon a' the steps,
Hadnae sterted livin' yet,
His poetry had some depth,

Rab trained as a minister,
He abandoned fir poetry,
At the age of twenty two,
With no heart for the ministry,

He took a job as a copyist,
Tae earn a crust tae live,
Probably hated it,
So much poetry for tae give,

If he wis alive the today,
He'd be pertying in Ibiza,
DJing wi' the discs,
Rapping like a geeza,

He was only 24,
At Cape Club he'd dae a gig,
I'm sure he enjoyed himsel',
It's something that he did,

After the fa',
Darkly melancholic,
Depression followed,
He  wisnea an alcoholic,

Straight to Edina's loony bin,
Then ca'd Darien House,
On Bristo Street used to stand,
Can't think what'd be worse,

He was born in 1750,
Died penniless in '74
Unmarked grave in Canongate,
Nae headstane was in store,

Many years later,
Head stane was selected,
Rabbie Burns inspired,
Was paid fir an' erected,

The date upon the stane was wrong,
Hopefully wis being changed,
By Robert Louis Stevenson,
But died before old age,

Grave is now restored,
Tae it's former glory,
Ironwork and stane cleaned,
But it's no the end o' story,

A statue wis erected,
On the street ootside the Kirk,
The way they positioned him,
He's on his way tae work,

You'll see the Parliament building,
If you wander doon the road,
Poems and poetry on the wa's
But none in Fergusson mode,

It seems he's been forgotten,
In this day and age,
Someone with his talent,
Wan o' Edina's greatest sage,

Let's hope we'll see his poetry,
On Scotland's parliament wa,
I dinae mean graffiti,
I mean poetry fir a'.
R Dickson Jan 2015
What's it like to be sixty,
Rolling over in bed,
Struggling wi' the covers,
All tangled around my head,

I'm not quite sixty,
I'm only fifty nine,
Less than a month to go,
Some way down the line,

What's it like to be sixty,
Asking my granny when seven,
Dinnae be thinking that,
You're young with so much livin'

Years have just flashed by,
Getting even faster,
Sometimes no time to think,
Feeling a bit dafter,

What's it like to be sixty,
Hopefully no walking frame,
To hobble down the street,
And forgetting my name,

If I'm deaf at sixty,
I'll need a hearing aid,
If I'm incontinent,
I'll need a ***** made,

What's it like to be sixty,
I'll need to wait and see,
When I wake up in the morning,
I hope I'm still just me.
Thoughts of a man approaching 60.
R Dickson Jan 2015
Hogmanay has been and gone,
New Year's Day is here,
Only 358 days to go,
Till the next round of Christmas cheer.
R Dickson Jan 2015
Christmas Day is over,
Thank God it's once a year,
Thank God, God had only one son,
I couldn't handle twice the cheer.

— The End —