"yir" poems
So aye
We wir watchin
that David Attenborough
or tryin tae -
fower weans tearin up the joint,
an she's like,
See if youse dinny shut it...!
an aw that, ken -
You no gonny tell thum?
So ah'm like,
"Aye.
Wheesht, youse."
But it wis amazin, like.
These fish.
Years oot at sea.
Tiny wee at first,
dodgin sharks an jellyfish
an aw sorts,
awa oot, miles fae land.
(*God! Youse! Take it up the stair!
Tell thum, you!*
"Aye, boys. Listen tae yir ma.")
Then wan day, like
they get the urge, ken?
Got tae go.
An in they come,
surgin fae the sea,
these sleek, silver bullets
fat wi feedin.
(I'll no tell yis again!)
Nothin, an ah mean nothing
is gonny stop them.
Waterfalls? Nae bother.
Just pure hungry
fir the lassies, ken?
The boy Attenborough sais
they dinny even eat!
(*That's it! Ah tellt ye!
Here you! Take some responsibility,
wull ye?*
"Eh? Oh, aye.
Away tae yir rooms, boys -
yir ma tellt ye.")
These pure ***** divils
will loup up sheer cliffs,
baws burstin, bi the look ay it.
Poetry in motion, ken?
Like, ah dinny ken, pure water
brought tae life, an that.
Jist pure savage.
An then, haw -
they find the lassies!
An it's jist, like,
'splurge'!
Done the deed.
Gemme ower,
job done,
deid.
An there's this shot.
Ripplin shallows,
just fill ay the twitchin bodies.
Craws an bears an that,
queuin up fir the bonanza.
Jist, like,
totally
spent.
An she's aw,
*Here, is that no terrible?
Pair buggers!
Eifter aw that!*
An ah'm like,
"Aye."
But see inside,
ah'm thinkin,
"Lucky,
lucky ********
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
*Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*
It was silent. His body sunk into the earth.
His soul long gone from there. He had died
A gun upon his arms.
*When they come a wull staun ma groon
Staun ma groon al nae be afraid*
He had died with a home that his dream would
live on.
*Thoughts awe hame tak awa ma fear
Sweat an bluid hide ma veil awe tears*
Later they had told us he had died with courage
and valor.
*Ains a year say a prayer faur me
Close yir een an remember me*
The shots continue he fell by the
tenth.
*Nair mair shall a see the sun
For a fell tae a Germans gun*
A ******** grasped in his stone
cold hand
*Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*
He saw a line of faces, brown, black
and white. Some were smiling others,
crying
*Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*
His body sunk into the cold, wet ground
As God opened his arms, for a boy
drenched in blood.
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun
A group waited in the wings. Soldiers
from many places. Who fought to keep
their shores safe.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart
When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!
Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.
This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve
Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”
Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop
These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”
So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light
Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
Wee cosy, tranquil Gatehouse Library
Ah come in quite a lot tay see yi,
Tay read yir books and use yir wifi
An' chat tay Joannie,
Sae noo Ah'm goannie sing yir praises,
Ah'm pure dead goannie.
Ye're sic' a cultural oasis,
Wan o' ma favourite learnin' places,
Yir books can form the verra basis
O' Scottish brain power,
Enrichin' minds an' cheeky faces
O' Scottish wean power.
So let us pray they never close yi
Tay those who would, we will oppose yi.
We'll be the storm an ill wind blows yi
At sic' a crunch time.
The only closin' we'll allow
Is Joannie's lunch time.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
Ah didny recognise him fae the eulogy.
The meenister'd nivver met the lad, Ah could see.
A hero? Aye, mibbe. Jist a name tae maist ay these fowk.
But ah kent im as a boay,
the daft wee scapegoat, ayewis in boather,
but nae real hairm in im.
He wis the lad wha'd get skelped, the noise
makkin the teacher turn is heid
jist in time tae spot im skelpin back.
Mairched tae the heidie again.
"Yir a bad lot, Barry.
Yir faither wis a bad lot too."
Puir Baz.
Da in the jile,
Ma aff her face on smack,
an him, daft, funny, doomed.
If onybody at hame had cared enough
tae keep the schuil photies,
they'd have shown a wee freckly laddie
wi a too-open grin,
year eftir year,
jersey gettin tattier,
teeth getting gappier,
still grinnin while the rest ay us
were far too cool tae smile for the camera.
Ah liked im.
Didny unnerstaun how the teachers
were sae ***** tae im.
There wis far badder boays in the year.
Ricky ****** Jackson - a nasty, sleekit wee body,
yankin ab'dy's strings.
But his da wis rich
an the teachers fawned ower im.
No Baz, though.
Cannon fodder, richt enough.
Tackin the flack fir the rest ay us.
Exactly the kind ay lad
the ******* Army thrives on.
Ah canny feel the patriotic pride,
canny picture the self-sacrifice,
the heroism.
Ah can juist see im,
daft an grinnin,
daein whit he wis tellt
an gettin killt.
Mind you,
he wis aye headin for the poppies, that yin,
One wey
or anither.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
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.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
Whoa.
See that yin?
Jist sittin there?
Ye ken how she’s sittin like that, don’t ye?
Well, whit’s she sittin oan?
Aye, her erse.
She’s only sittin like that
So ye ken she’s got an erse.
Gaggin fir it.
An whoa, check that yin!
Wearin claes!
Filthy cow!
Whit dae ye mean, “Whit dae ah mean”?
Claes!
Ye canny wear claes
If ye huvny got a boady, can ye?
That’s right –
Just screamin it, so she is –
“Check oot ma boady!”
Aye, ah wull an aw!
Don’t mind if ah dae!
Aw, mate – that yin!
That yin ower there!
Bendin her airm!
See her?
Bendin her airm like a mucky ****
That’s so ye ken
She’s got elbows!
Phwoar, I ken your type hen –
you wi yir elbows an a’thin!
Desperate fur it, aren’t ye?
An man! This yin,
walkin towards us!
Breathin in an oot!
Whit a slapper!
Breathin in an oot!
Aye, ye need a pair o lungs tae dae that,
I bet, eh, hen?
A pair o fine, functioning lungs!
Aye, you use them, doll –
dinny you be shy!
Ah’m no!
Aw pal, haud me back!
This yin!
This yin eatin a meat pie!
Shameless wee ****
Aw yeah, baby,
I ken whit that means!
Mean’s ye’ve got yirsel
a **** wee digestive tract in there, no?
Ye dinny hae tae spell it oot tae me, love!
Probably got a pair o kidneys
tucked away in there too,
ye ***** wee *****
Aw the same, ur they no?
Aw ae thum.
Gantin oan it.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
1: Ah’m the Boss Man. Me.
2: Dinna ****** swear.
3: Go tae Church. OR ELSE.
4: Mind yer lip wi the Auld Dear.
5: Nae ******
6: Keep yer hauns tae yersel.
7: Whit isna yairs, isna yairs. Dinna forget.
8: Dinna fit nae ****** up fir whit they didna dae.
9: Keep yir ehs aff her nixt door…
10: …an yir ehs aff thir gear, as well.
Mind now!
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Kriekgeguard: Sö tall meh how ya doeth wit despair,
and all fir of flams flewing and chewing yir up,
that the hole time yir piercenality waz,
so streing to solve it, but yir did it,
in wreighting of odders wreighting yirself down,
for yirs and yirs and yirs, the hole time
and wie all wanted tingz easey,
sö as yi sayeth, you maketh things hart,
möre difficult for understanding,
how to deal cards with comeflict
as it is with the absolutelysurd world?
Crosstianity, come thinkets, is nothing 'ese aftir all.
So cometh rill empairic, roll yir thongue.
Tall true the true tailing.
Sore: Tired Ae got.
But righting is noting,
it is a smull bud of rose,
and roses out of noting,
Ignore how day and day only tell you:
"You are a great prose stylist, you know the craft, I don't"
For a fukd, Ae might be called a prose cyclist,
but it is not me, it is the kisses muse,
you never forget it for a fukd,
first you note in, then you synthesize, symphonise, syncrosise.
It is all just music.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 7:19 PM UTC
*** yir ******* skids outta
m'ah 'uckin feece!
god i love that place,
glasgow is like birmingham
of the north...
a rotten scow to nowhere,
unless it be a place that
spoke: deep-fried mars bar
for breakfast -
you scurvy worth of
the tangled sailor! ****
gods took to the twallop,
and i takes me to the
rool ups!
got a bargain with a shrimp
you belfast *****
my **** you 'av!
next time they sing: sweet dover,
i'll have you marrying the *****
cult of: shard!
ye storm ah heed!
**** me an' timber twice:
V fooking eye of ye, hire-crane!
******** twice,
three times removed
the drunk... huh?!
it's all plus minus with me by
now...
ha ha!
had a cousin, didn't say why,
cursed & numbed the cuss words
like a nun ought to know why...
so i says me:
lingua the leash - earn the ir -
softspot for the tucker-jacks
and the irish lepers: shauns they
called them...
he he...
look at me:
all smug and waiting
for brussel sprouts out the paan tree...
what's with these wallaby terms?
panchree? panna quinoa, panna cotta?
******* as clingy as those pepsoowongs,
or wangs or pepsoos.
as the english queers say
F F Θ, but then pull out a churchill -
and vey v girman vey such & such...
they and way become indistinguishable -
churchie and the welsh abbey become
one and the same with either V
as "peace", or the V and the welsh
longbowmen **** you...
v'eh point... wayward: too soon...
vuck!
wook?
wookie?
va va voom!
woonder-brum, brimming,
bra bra bra... ha ha ha...
dried it all off with the giggles...
then it became apparent:
the man settled for the dozen,
whether it was a dozen of ostriches,
hyenas,
bunches of lychee,
leaks,
bulgarian strippers -
or worse...
a dozen of english rhetoricians,
notably gay;
**** what a gamble.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
Ever have they dwelled in that sickly city,
That even the flowing ice avoided
As it crept down from the heights,
Devourving all in its path.
Among evil shadows,
Did they practice their craft.
In the primordial conurbation
Of forsaken Yir.
Since time immemorial
They have met in silence.
Beneath Yir's dark obelisks
And the backdrop of jagged mountains.
Many believe them necromancers.
It is even said in myth ,
That they were the ones to create man
In order to spite the gods .
But such memories ,
If ever there were any,
Have long since passed
From the revelries of thought.
None have seen these sorcerers
Or that sable city of Yir
Since the ice had receeded
In more recent ages.
In fact, not even the location
Of that monsterous place
Can be agreed upon anymore,
Which many count as a blessing.
For though the city is lost,
And unseen by the eye,
The meer mention of it
Disturbs and unsettles the mind.
As if it's raven spell,
Was never truely lifted.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
Far and awa fae the light making shadows.
Sight to behold in the afternoon snow.
Gallant destruction in wall tumbled ivy.
Tight as the hack of the hobbling crow.
Parson and gardener, nipped on their fingers.
Wrapping up, fenced, for the winter to come.
Cauld is the cloak on the journey to pasture.
Tilling the field and the prayer book hum.
Frost blaws to thaw as the sun yawns, persistent.
Batter the drum as the hail thumps in time.
Speed through the wind as it gnaws faces, twisted.
Slush churns to wet as the welcome bells chime.
Winter yir song, as it puffs into whisper.
Herald the twilight for new days to speak.
Underfoot crack as your hold starts to weaken.
Buttercup sun tips her hat to the bleak.
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 12:40 PM UTC