stuart macfarlane

 

Stuart Macfarlane

   
     

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Some 'tongue in cheek' poems written by Stuart Macfarlane
  A selection of 'poems' from No' Rabbie Burns

If you decide to part with your hard earned cash and buy this book or manage to steal a copy, I do hope that you find the poems amusing. If you think them ‘disgustingly worse than tapioca’ – well at least the book is the perfect size for propping up that old wobbly table in your kitchen.


Website:
no-rabbie-burns.com

 
     
Charlie He’s A Skiver


Tune: Charlie He’s Me Darling

Chorus
O, Charlie he’s a skiver,
A skiver, a skiver.
Charlie he’s a skiver,
The young Chav-in-Gear.

Twas on a Monday Morning,
Jist efter twenty beer,
Thit Charlie came tae oor buroo,
The young Chav-in-Gear.

As he was walking up the aisles,
The claims forms for to view,
O, there he spied the ‘child allowance’,
And some ‘invalidity benefits’ too.

Sae glad he jumped up an’ doon,
Demanding fifty poun’,
Saying “Ah’m goan tae top masel’,
If Ah don’t get it soon”.

We gave him awe the money,
Fur we hudnae any choice,
And now he’s getting awfy pissed,
Wae the other skiving boys.
 

 

To a Tattie – on Turning Her Over and Putting Her in the Oven at Gas Mark Seven

for Thirty Minutes
(An almost traditional St. Patrick’s Day dedication to the common potato.)
 

Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous tattie,
Plucked frae the ground ye little fattie,
Thou need na try to rin aff hasty,
Tae save yer life,
Cos I wid hae to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murdering knife.

I'm truly sorry man's cuisine,
Has broken Nature's social scene,
But efter awe, yer jist a spud,
Fruit o’ the earth, child o’ the mud,
Baked tae make ye o’ sae tasty,
Tae ony mortal!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
Even though I’ll eat you for my tea:
Wae baked-beans spread on top of ye.
What is your effect goin’ tae be?
I’ll fart all day – my wind blowin’ free,
I guess an' fear!
 

 
  A Warning on Spontaneous Combustion


O whisky is the king of drinks,
Renowned the world o’er,
But here’s a word o’ caution,
Tae think of when ye pour.
There’s a certain combination,
That tastes so very good,
But when it hits your tummy,
And mixes with your food.
That’s when the trouble starts,
For yer pleasure hits overload,
And half an hour later,
Ye’ll suddenly explode.
So there ye are in the pub,
Completely engulfed in flames,
And yer good wife’s dashing home,
Tae lodge insurance claims.
Well now that I have told ye,
Don’t say ye’ve no’ been warned,
So don’t try it oot yersel’,
Or ye’ll soon be bein’ mourned.
 

 
  Oor Jimmy Goat an ASBO


It wis jist before his birthday,
He wis very nearly six,
That oor Jimmy broke those windies,
Way some dirt great big bricks.
Then he kicked old Mister Brown,
And telt him tae ‘fuck aff’,
Relieved him o’ his pension,
And cut his walkin’ stick in haff.

Aye, oor Jimmy is a right wee lad,
He’s alwis full o’ fun,
But he’s only at his happiest,
When he’s playin’ wae his gun.
He shoots at cats and dogs and stuff,
And people on their bikes,
He disnae mean them any herm,
It’s jist somethin’ thit he likes.

Jimmy goat a birthday present,
A man frae The Council called,
Presented him wae an ASBO,
And said he wis appalled.
Ah’m takin’ Jimmy oot taenight,
The wee lad cannae wait,
We’re off doon tae McDonalds,
Tae fuckin’ celebrate.
 

(Note: ASBO is Anti-Social Behaviour Order - a mark of pride amongst British Neds / Chavs )

 
  Charge of the Loch Ness Brigade


Two thousand men and women too,
Prepare themselves fae battle,
Heads doon against the wind,
Like a herd o’ frozen cattle.

The signal comes it’s time tae go,
There’s nowt else can be done,
For those that arnae fit enough,
The torture’s soon to come.

Frae Foyers’ hill they do descend,
All eyes upon the loch,
The leader wae themsel’ do battle,
Others fight against the clock.

A line, a mile, stretches ower the route,
Back markers start tae falter,
The leading group fight it oot,
For gold upon the alter.

At eighteen mile the climb begins,
The pace begins tae slow,
The muscles ache, the will does break,
But ye force yersel’ tae go.

Into the toon, ye’ll finish soon,
The streets are lined wae smiles,
Applause, a wave, a comic says,
‘Christ, it’s only twenty-six miles’.

Across the line ye drag yersel’,
You even shed a tear,
You tell yersel’ o’ ne’er again,
At least not ‘til next year.
 

 
Epitaph to Jock MacDee


Sa’ men die in victory,
Heroes wan an’ awe,
There souls tae rise in glory be,
As in battle they did fa’.

Some men die celebrity,
Wa’ fame and fortune found,
Ne’er tae forgotten be,
Tho’ six foot underground.

But who the Hell was Jock MacDee?
Who the Hell was he?
Who the Hell was Jock MacDee?
I think I’ve wondered into the wrang church!
. . . excuse me.