After Burns Nicht: (about time we had a bit of culture here)

[MissMoppet]

Address to a Boris
Awa’ wi’ yer lyin’, pudgy face
Chief conman o the Tory race
Aw silver spuin, a waste o space
Aw tripe, nae guts.
Ye’re soon tae pay fur the disgrace
Of yer cruel cuts.


Yer groanin’ trencher there ye fill
Yer hurdies like twa dimpled hills
Yer plate wad hulp to feed a million
Weans in need.
While thro yer press whores lies still spill
Like choukie feed.


Yer lies gie Covid patients fright
We mind yer ev’ry glaikit slight
When trenchin’ breathless corpses tight
In unmarked ditch.
And ye? O whit a hideous sight
Cake-reekin, rich.


In hi-viz jaikit, coupon buffed
Hard hat, hair-net, a mop, chest puffed
Ye dinnae care yer country’s stuffed
By old schuil chums.
Fuid rots in docks yet ye’ve enough
Tae glut yer gums.


While ye trough thro yer French ragout
Or olio that wad burst a coo
It’s neeps and tatties in oor stew
We’re keepin’ thinner.
Yet ye sit sneerin’, scornfu’ too
Wi’ ten course dinner.


Poor “Boris” thocht he’d be World King
Wi’ peasants kissin’ his gowd ring
But noo he lives oan a shoestring
He’s charged fur fuid!
And maintenance fur his offspring!
Nae bluidy guid!


Pure feart o lassies, men and boys
Yon Tories plot tae droun the noise
Of true control, of fair free choice
Fur independence.
Oor sov’rinty yields not oor vyce
Tae yer “acceptance”.


Conmen, wha mak free folk thair slave
Unite us mair oor land tae save
New Scotland’s soon tae rule her wave
Tae reach new glories.
Be safe, oor southern pals, be brave:
Just ditch the Tories.

To the immortal memory of Robert Burns.


From today's Guardian