Can't believe what I'm seeing,
All the flames and smoke,
Sparks ignite expanding foam,
Skyline begins to choke,

Smoke is seen from miles around,
Drifts across the M8 motorway,
Drifting down Renfrew Street,
Students stand and pray,

Students were getting ready,
Their talent ready to show
The fire put a stop to that,
Some talent just won't show,

Built by Rennie Mackintosh,
In the Art Nouveau design,
A building of world renown,
Some think of it a shrine,

Building damage wasn't too bad,
Fire and Rescue saved most,
Student's art and Rennie's art,
Didn't end up like burnt toast.

See when you've writ your poem,
And sent it on it's way,
Do you ever go back to it,
Later that same day?

You think you could have done better,
With something else to say,
Or do you put it in the bin,
And throw your pen away.

I sent a poem by e-mail,
But when I looked at what I sent,
The things that were in it,
It wasn't what I meant,

The words were all muddled,
They were all in the wrong place,
I hope they understand,
That I'm not a head case.

So I've got just one question,
Do you think it's too late,
To ask them for the e-mail back,
So I can correct all the mistakes.

Ken a' these auld Scots words,
The wans that we've forgot,
Why are we no using them,
It's because we wernae taught,

At hame wi' mither an fathir,
Speaking all and proper,
First day at school,
Speech becomes a cropper,

All yir mates at school,
Coming oot wi' words like bowff,
Saying them in the hoose,
Yir fathir says watch yir mouth,

Rax me oor the poorie,
As ma grama said to me,
Asking her whit she meant,
Gies the milk jug fir ma tea,

Fab technology today,
Smert phones and iPad,
They missed oot wan thing,
The language o' my grandad,

Skype, that's a new word,
Sounds a bit like Scottish,
Was it tae clip you round the ear hole,
That word should be abolished,

If yir no Scottish,
Rabbie's words are a' daft,
All the words that came out o' him,
That was the man's craft,

Whit aboot these well kent lines,
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Sorry aboot that Rabbie,
Stealing that was totally misplaced,

Oot o' bed on wi' ma baffies,
Tae pit them on I need tae sit doon
Sittin' on the chair wi' ma bahookie,
Missed the chair fawing like a loon,

When yir oot daein the gowf,
And yir breeks are a' in a runkle,
Dinnae be a feart tae tac them aff,
If you've got them in a fankle,

Deekin oot the windae,
Stramash on the doon the road,
Some folk getting a doin',
Ithers getting a carry code,

Polis got there quick enough,
Must have a been a hunner,
Saw the big yin there,
He was the heid ******,

The rammy wi the radges
Was just oot side the offie,
Jings crivvens help ma boab,
Some went ben the bothy,

We're all **** Tamson's bairns,
We a' just want tae learn,
We can do it wi' the Scots,
It's a language that we yearn.

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

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'.

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.

Hogmanay has been and gone,
New Year's Day is here,
Only 358 days to go,
Till the next round of Christmas cheer.