Wednesday, June 30, 2010

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

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