The Sidlaw Hills

My heart lies under,

A small patch of land,

Not mapped by satellites,

To which I have the rights,

A postage of Angus,

In the countryside,

I know the quarry,

And discovered the rocks.

Don’t let anyone say,

That they were there before me,

I was the first and I’ll be the last,

On my small mental holding.

I was scratched by the gorse,

And I married the heather,

The white clover burns my soul,

On the little patch of Angus,

To which I’m tethered.

My dad was there with his dad,

Forgetting about everything,

They roared in silence,

About the myth of accession,

Laughed and derided,

The prison of possession.

My dad was there with his dad,

Forgetting about everything,

They roared in silence,

About the myth of accession,

Laughed and derided,

The prison of possession.

But I possess my little patch,

And it possesses me,

Locked together as one,

Eternally.

My father is there,

And he and I,

Share tea from the fire,

And views by and by.

Yes my heart lies under,

A small patch of land,

Bang on those Sidlaw Hills.

To a Bee

Thir’s a bee oan yer back Churchie,

Thir’s a bee oan yer back,

But ye wouldnae really want me,

Tae say that.

You ken better,

Coz ye spoke tae The Man,

An’ Eh jist didnae treh hard enough,

Or Eh’m jist no in yer plan.

Well thir’s still a bee oan yer back,

An' he’s crawlin’ aboot,

An' mibbe gonnae sting,

He wiz happy ootside,

But then in he flew,

Tae find esel’ oan yer faithful pew,

Lehin’ there oan you, oan you,

Wha tells me whit tae think,

When aw that Eh can think right now,

Is will the stinger sink?

Thir’s a bee oan yer back Churchie,

But Eh’ll keep it tae m’sel’,

Seein’s you ken better whit’s goin’ oan,

An’ you ken better wha’s goin’ tae Hell.

Well, he’s still there Churchie,

An dinnae you look daft,

Wi’ that wee buzzer crawlin’ ah aboot ye,

Baith in yer best Sunday gaffe,

Ye can tell iz whit tae say,

An’ ye can tell iz whit Eh cannae,

Ye can mak oot that ye dinnae shite,

An’ that ye’ve never had a fanny,

But wee Buzzy’s goin’ naewhere,

In front o’ whaur Eh’m sat,

An’ he’s no such a hypocrite,

Like Burns was no nae twat.

But Eh couldnae care less for nothin’,

‘Cept right now for that bee,

Eh hope he doesnae fleh awa’,

Afore anyone can see,

Eh hope he stings you in the heid,

And gies you michty woe,

Then Eh’ll believe the scriptures,

O’ reapin’ whit ye sow.

The Deid Goarse in a High Wind

Like the deid goarse in a high wind,

Meh love an’ fear, they burn,

Like the heid coarpse wha hauf sinned,

Baith, they twist an’ turn.

Meh love an’ meh fear, meh grace an’ meh hatred,

Meh compassion an’ meh selfishness,

Meh respect an’ meh meanness o’ spirit,

Meh desire an’ meh desire,

Eh can see it aw, there.

Like the deid goarse in a high wind,

Meh desire an’ desire, they burn,

Meh addiction and abstinence,

Desire an’ desire,

Like the deid goarse ablaze,

Annihilatin’ athin’

In its road,

Reclaimin’ athin’

Tae nothin’ but,

The black and the grey,

Makin’ athin’,
 Simple again.

Burnin’, blazin’, ragin’,

That deid goarse gaes up,

Like a fuckin’ toarch,

Ablaze, oan fire,

Like meh desire.

The hoarses manes oarange demons,

Hear the crackle through the thunder,

As they stampede wi’ solar flair,

From whaur asunder?

The riders tak the form,

O’ the chokin’ smoke,

Which maks a grown man creh,

Spinnin through the wind,

Afore turnin’ quick tae deh.

Like the deid goarse in a high wind,

Goes the deid goarse in a high wind,

An’ there’s nothin’ like it,

Tae pit a man in his place.

The First Voice Ye Hear

The first voice ye hear,

Act oan it, act oan it,

Let the second be mackin' the plan.

Let the first face ye think o’,

Be o’ the bairn,

Let the second face be o’ yer Mam.

The first thought ye hae,

In the moarnin’ light,

Let it be miracle world.

Combined wi’ closed ehs for less lucky souls,

Afore ye are even unfurled.

The last thought ye hae,

Dwell on it, dwell on it,

Mak share the crowd’s no a fake.

An efter a’ that,

Sleep oan it, sleep oan it,

An Eh’ll still be here when ye wake.