Trachled

The hinner o’ glaur
mid the chill cauld dubs,
rainin’ then, rainin’ forever
ain mair th’ same.

Th’ brichtest spot
on the kail broo horizon
a glaik o’ mattresses
wi’ jam berries snoozin’
bin th’ stoney field

whaur tatties coorie th’ gither
wishin’ they waur chips
an’ trachled auld coos
curse th’ cost
o’ bran’ new wellies
ain hae’n tae fork oot
fur twa pair each.

Pestered aye ways
by honkin’ geese
like feathery midgies
fa dinnae ken whither
they’re comin’ or goin’
an’ howkin’ fur tatties
is like dookin’ fur aipples.

Thaur stauns fushionless
in the maughsome glaur
the fairmer glowerin’
at the muckle midden,
flickin’ his fag
tae gently sizzle
in th’ nearest dub.

Lug flaps doon
an’ dander up,
shakin’ his heed
in a fumin’ fizzle
he hauchles awa’ cursin’
his faither’s fancy dan
EU subsidy ambitions.

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