By Jim Aitken
Aye, they maun think we’re aw daft
comin’ up here in his kilt an’ tweed
jaiket, swannin’ aroun’ as if he owns
the place. Ah spose he does really
wi his land roond Balmoral an’ aw
the rest ay it tae. But he’s kiddin’
anely himsel’ if he thinks donnin’
tartan maks him yin o’ us cos it jist
disnae. Maist ay us ken whit he’s uptae.
It’s aw aboot tryin’ tae mak us think
that the state he’s the heid o’ is at yin
wi’ aw things Scottish; that this state gies
twa bawbees for us aw when it jist disnae.
It cared mair aboot sheep than folk lang
syne, an’ noo it cares mair aboot eil an’ wind.
The state he’s the heid o’ has been rippin’
us aff for centuries, yasin us for their wars
an’ the like. Maist ay us ken whit he’s uptae.
His mither tellt us aw tae tak tent when we
voted for independence. Whit a con yin was!
Noo we’re oot ay Europe in the ruins o’ the
empire an’ they clowns voted for it tae, an’
it gaes mair tae the richt aw the time wi wee
Nigel an’ his cronies. Chooky Cherlie says nowt
aboot it in his kilt an’ tweed jaiket an’ his siller
aw in affshore hideoots. If anely there wis a pairty
tae get us oot o’ this cos we ken whit he’s uptae.
This poem is republished from the latest issue of Lallans, the Journal O The Scots Leid Associe, No.10, Yuil, 2025
