Monday, 15 September 2014

Poem by Bubblyjock on The Telegraph

Wake up, Wake up an' answer me this, 
Where is the joy an' where is the bliss,
In draggin' us doon to a miserable state?
For a' that ye've gained is nothing but hate,
Frae within and withoot an' just because you,
Wi' ‘Sturgie Fishwife’ an' ‘Sillars the Clown’
Side wi' Eckie the Ego’s bully boy crew
Aye agitatin' and draggin' us down!
Wake up, Wake up; tae wha’s really to blame,
For stirrin’ the hate tha’s wreckin’ my hame?
Ye've reopened the wounds of our long ago wars
O' aye fichtin' each other, then laying the cause,
On oor English cousins frae south of the border
Aye screaming oot loud wi' a' agrieved vim, 
“But it wisnae me!” that caused oor disorder,
“It was yon Sassenach; I ken it was Him!!”
Is it me or ye wha scorns bein’ British?
Is it me or ye wha’s a' humpty an’ skittish?
Aye tauntin’ the English, aye shoutin a’ down,
An screamin’ abuse at a’ wha’d dare frown,
On a Scotland noo shunned south o’ the border?
Naw! It’s ye Nationalist an we ken on wha’s order,
The one wi’ the snarls an’ a his screws loose,
Yon 'Eckie the Ego' wha thinks he’s the Bruce!
Wake up, Wake up, for a' oor sakes, Wake!
Awake from your trance afore it’s too late,
Snap oot the fuddle that has ye cross eyed,
So blind to the bull of your Eck Piper Pied,
As he carries on puffin' an' spoutin' his lies,
On the riches he says will be spread among a’,
‘boot how our wee nation‘s a’ set for blue skies,
As he fills up his breeks wi’ yon Northern Sea’s gold!!
Wake up, wake up; the cat’s oot the bag,
That a’ that Eck gies is nothing but blag, 
An’ bullyin’ bluff; he’s a posturin’ prancer,
A cunnin’ wee rogue, a dangerous chancer,
For as each day goes by it’s clear tae us a’,
He’s reckless an’ careless wi’ oor bonny Nation,
As he aye just tackles the man no the baw,
Draggin’ us doon tae hell an’ perdition!
For he’s sic a sliporous, slithrous beastie,
Wi’ nothin’ but hubris an’ spite in his breastie,
His schemin’ was ne’er for Scotland’s salvation,
It's a’ just aboot his ane coronation,
So’s he can squat on the grand Stane o’ Scone,
An’ smirk at the English frae the Bruce throne,
Wi’ the rest o' us serfs just a’ left to droon,
In his sea o’ rash promises ne'er to be known!!

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