Da Moarnin Eftir

This poem, like a few others which may follow, was inspired by the Shetland  "drink culture". There is all too much said about the troubles caused by alcohol in Shetland, and there is no doubt that less consumption would be better, however alcohol consumption in Norway creates a much more severe problem and no doubt I will get poetically reflective on that before too long.
This poem, I can assure you, is pure fiction. It never happened to me. Or if it did I can't remember.

Da Moarnin Eftir

Dat first glisk o life i da moarnin,
nae doot du kens whit I mean,
waakened raamished an hungower
fae too muckle beer dastreen.

So I rise an I geeng tae da keetchin,
a slestir laek du's neevir seen,
red tins spread roond laek deed indians,
wi pizza brucks lyin atween.

Me drawers ir lyin i da trance,
an me breeks ower neest door's fence.
Me socks ir hung on da lampshade,
bit somethin joost dusna mak sense.

I cam haem dis drunk, dunna doot dat.
I fan me wye, Christ kens foo,
bit why his da wife no sturred yet
ta see me in siccna a sloo?

Du sees I neevir wan tae da bed,
I waakened faa'n by 'pö da floor,
so a'd better joost geen fir a skoit
roond da neuk o da bedroom door.

Hoopin ta see hir soonded,
an neevir bliderin an ee,
bit Loard bliss me da bed's empty.
Whaur ta da De'il can shö be?

We guid furt,,, Oh Loard, noo a'm minded.
Baith o wis guid furt dastreen.
So whaur his da auld beesom wun tae?
Nae doot aff wi sum idder een.

Oh begger her, lat her hae her wye.
Shö can do whit shö bloddy weel wants.
Dis time I hae da upper haand,
whin shö's aff upö een o hir cants.

So lat me be whit I be,
whin shö comes haem a'll see shöll no fin
ony bruck i da hoos ta bitch aboot,
a'll wap hit aa furt i da bin.

So a skurt foo o tinnies an hellery,
an da New Shetlander's latest big scoop,
dat's ower coorse tae use i da oot hoose ,
bit hit's already weel stained wi poop.

Ower da green tae da shed,
I see some claes faa'n aff da line?
Skirt, bra, tank top an G-String,,
Dat's hers, mind you,,no mine.

Da shed is staandin wide open,
an sunlicht sheens in trow da door,
shawin da shape o her bare naked erse,
leak an ebbed up whale upö da floor.

So I tocht I wis da wan i da doghoose,
da wan ta be burdened wi shame,
bit boy will shö evir live dis doon?
Nae shanse... Dis is her oor o fame.

Auld Rasmie

Simmir

Just now and then I actually reflect sensibly on Shetland.
The following little verse was written after a walk on one of those rare Shetland evenings when everything was just PERFECT.
The sentiments in this verse, that fine weather is rare, could be better explained by the old story about an American tourist who asked a crofter, "Say bud, when does summer come to these parts?". The old crofter scratched his head, then replied, "Weel, last year we held it upö a Tuesday".

Hit's no mony days dis wadder comes,
see da reek rise strait fae aa da lums.
If du staands a start i da still saft air,
du'll hear da laebrack just ower dere.


Hear da drummie-bees on dir busy roond,
an da lichtsome trill o da laevriks soond
Da yalls o da bairns oot ower on da hill,
an da hark o da water trow da mill.

As da hömin draws near, an da sun sinks wast,
hit pents da lift wi a reddish cast.
I winder if hit'll be da sam da moarn,
an I tank da loard I wis Shaetlan born.

Auld Rasmie

Peerie Bairns

I'll start by posting a poem which was inspired by the trauma of having children who, as I'm sure you all know, can easily become ill, but equally easily bounce back from their illness very quickly. Leaving you wondering what just happened to your expected night of sleep.

Peerie bairns gettin ready fur bed,
Da maist distress ony hoose ever hed,
Dey tollie owre da toothpaste an even da pan,
Dir's naethin mair traan dan da offspring o man.

Dey race fur da stairs, wha'll be first,
Noo baith o dem's faain, wha's greetin da warst,
Cuddled an soothed an sent on dir wye,
Tucked in an lichts oot, dey'll sleep bye an bye.

Noo settlin doon fur a nicht at da fire,
Your hopes o paece gettin higher an higher,
Dan dir's a sprech fae da heid o da stair,
A heid or a gut or somethin is sair.

So you sit up aa nicht an tend ta dir pain,
Ony paeceful tochts ir right doon da drain,
Bit come da moarn whin you're worn til a crang,
Dey spang oot o bed laek naethin wis wrang.

So dey geng ta school, an you geng ta wark,
An you feel laek dir's lead i da tail o your sark,
Bit nichts laek yun just happen da wance,
You'll get paece da nicht, - Some Bloddy Chance.!!

Auld Rasmie

Why I started this blog.

Until recently I had posted a lot of my silly scribbles on another site, but I realised that the humourous content wasn't really right for a serious site, hence I've moved them here.
Or, I will move them here over a period of time, because I'm too lazy to do it all at once.

More will be added from time to time, when my tangled old braincell comes up with new ideas.