Delta40
03-06-2011, 08:50 AM
Be still babblin’ thoughts
that steep thy skin.
Calm mah laboorioos road
ay autumn mist
ain mud-spattered trudgings.
Pray guid Sir, might ah tak refuge
at lodgings fit for thes sickly moose?
Should ah chance tae come thes way again,
thy breed will be yit another two days gain.
Perhaps a compote of mah verse
will add glaw tae a man’s pallid lips
ain famished soul?
Cry fur me nae, hen friends.
Toss C ock-a-leekie soup if ye main.
Mah words unbuckle th' belts of toil
wi’ hearty laughter.
Gently noo guid fowk.
Th’ scran scalds mah face
But I will forgife thee ignorance.
Thes humble moose hae bin patronised
mony a time by Kin’ and moggie.
A coin woods be weel felt noo.
Please, nae mair scran guid fowk.
Ah main be paid fur mah rest.
Silence dumb lugs! Ye roar
loch lions wi’ nae balls.
Ahm an earsair poet!
but fear nae - mah rhyme speaks sweeter
than ye guidwife’s soor bawlin’!
Ahm sorry tae offend ye, guid Sir.
Pay me afair ye usher thes moose
across ye threshauld ay comfort,
ay warm ale n’ broth.
Alas, misfortune be mah nam.
Tho weak frae mirth, ain laboor, ye teel me
tae find shelter not four miles to
th’ nearest bog where I might droon
under th’ weecht of mah own poems.
that steep thy skin.
Calm mah laboorioos road
ay autumn mist
ain mud-spattered trudgings.
Pray guid Sir, might ah tak refuge
at lodgings fit for thes sickly moose?
Should ah chance tae come thes way again,
thy breed will be yit another two days gain.
Perhaps a compote of mah verse
will add glaw tae a man’s pallid lips
ain famished soul?
Cry fur me nae, hen friends.
Toss C ock-a-leekie soup if ye main.
Mah words unbuckle th' belts of toil
wi’ hearty laughter.
Gently noo guid fowk.
Th’ scran scalds mah face
But I will forgife thee ignorance.
Thes humble moose hae bin patronised
mony a time by Kin’ and moggie.
A coin woods be weel felt noo.
Please, nae mair scran guid fowk.
Ah main be paid fur mah rest.
Silence dumb lugs! Ye roar
loch lions wi’ nae balls.
Ahm an earsair poet!
but fear nae - mah rhyme speaks sweeter
than ye guidwife’s soor bawlin’!
Ahm sorry tae offend ye, guid Sir.
Pay me afair ye usher thes moose
across ye threshauld ay comfort,
ay warm ale n’ broth.
Alas, misfortune be mah nam.
Tho weak frae mirth, ain laboor, ye teel me
tae find shelter not four miles to
th’ nearest bog where I might droon
under th’ weecht of mah own poems.