Poitry

As explained the o'er day, the funnin' fur 1690 is runnin' dry due fur til the cutbacks inflicted by Finance "Minister" Sammy Wilson. Thus Ah hiv bin lukkin' fur til expan ma repertoire intil poims, in the hape o' gettin' a grant frae the USA (Ulster Scots Agency, til the uninitiated). Ah hiv researched Ulster Scots poitry, an' hiv noted thit they are mainly based oan rural matters, an hiv nae artistic merit whitsaeiver. Ah hiv decided fur til haul wi' the latter criterion, but til adapt a foul baked, "Bate Poit" type o' approach in the hope o' gittin' a grant. Thus Ah publish ma yinst few belaw.....

Wilson


Tooty wee squat arsehole
Shitein' oan folk frae a brae o' teats
Fur a bat, at nicht, nae blinded
Flung thru the dark til mait his plump bake.


Crumbs.....


Clabber lifted an' shifted
Threw intil a dark wee space
fur she micht see, the nosey bitch
Ah'll hiv til hoke it later,
Til fine the stuff ah bucked in.

Fur noo ah shall lave it
Cubby hauled


Farmers.


Lurchin tractor bastards
Blackin' the road
Haulin' tubes o' shite
In rush oor

Spade the feck up
oor pull over
Yis bastards.

Free State Woman

She micht luk normal,

but she's the o'er surt,

lukkin o'er at ye wi' doeful eyes.

But ah'm a marcher,

an' naid me annual danner thru Catholic areas,

mind ye,

her's wud dae

Road Kill


Windaes rolled doon
The wireless blarin'
Parked up at the heid o' the toon
Lukkin' fur cuddies


Bullet heid lurkin'
Belaw the wheel o' the motor
Saits back, eyes deid
Wee feckers


Think they're in Ibiza
But they're nat,
It's Rathfriland
An' its pishin.