Dat Pillie

Hopefully this will be the nearest to controversial that I ever get in a poem. At least from a sexual point of view.

In the Shetland dialect, 'Penis' = 'Pillie'. And although that part of the male anatomy generally rules the normal brain cell, and my thoughts most of the time, this poem was actually written while thinking about a man who ran a bar in the south end of Shetland.
He had a habit of saying "Dat Pillie" when he heard of somebody who had acted on the impulse of 'da pillie' rather than the brain.
So this one is in memory of Peter. He served me many a good glass of beer.



Dat Pillie

I sit an winder lang sometimes why life can be sae trang,
why aches an pains an nyglie bits ir aetin at me krang.
I oosed ta be sae nimble an able i da bed,
bit noo I faa atil it buggered, dun, an dead.

Dir wis a time when I cud geeng fur nichts wi little sleep,
as lang as da mutton dagger got an antrin steep.
Bit noo a’m auld an grey even dat bits no sae vynded,
he’s lat me doon twice dis year, weel twice dat I hiv minded.

I winder if Viagra wid aese dis sorry plight,
an pit him back ta staandin 10 oors every nicht.
No dat a’m complainin, fir da boady needs a rest,
bit missin twice atil ee year is way below me best.

Bit feth, a’m meybe telling wrang, a’m just looked at da time,
da day’s no ower yet, just midnicht minus nine.
So twartree meenits left ta pit da world ta right,
a’m gaain ta steep me pillie, mair sharn anidder nicht.

Auld Rasmie

Dear Santa, 2009

Following on from a previous poem which failed to bring everything wished for from Santa Claus, this verse was spawned before Christmas 2009.
Whether or not this begging list to Santa was successful will no doubt be revealed in my Dear Santa 2010 thoughts, if that happens.


Dear Santa

Last year I med a Santa list
o twartree peerie tings I wissed
da auld white bearded een wid tak
ta me atil his Santa Sack.

Weel, he brocht me twartree Piltock flees
an böts dat cam up tae me knees
he furyat da new airs fir da yoal
bit I got eens paid fir wi da dole.

I aksed him fir a dreultin tree
bit neevir cam dat ting ta me
instead he sent a gruelie tree
language confusion, him no me.

So maist o whit I wanted cam
an a'm blyde o aa, sic an sam
so dis years list a'm scribblin noo
ta see whit Santa's gyain ta do.

Da first a'll aks is fir guid helt
an penga ta raise me ertly welt
dan all faa upö me bended knee
an aks igyen fir yun dreultin tree.

An noo whit I aks is no fur mesel
It’s sometin ta aese Shetlan fae hell
Dear Santa, cud do fin dy wye clear
ta replace da cooncil, dis comin year.

Auld Rasmie

Sadly my ugly face fell in front of a camera to record this one. I think it was actually the result of a very bad bottle of wine, or maybe two very bad bottles of wine. Either way here's the poem, in roughly the way I tried to envisage it when it was written...

Auld Age

I think we all reach an age where the body no longer wants to put up with the torture we inflict on it from working too hard, or indeed playing too hard.
After another week of pushing the old carcase to the limits at work, and suffering all the resulting aches in joints and muscles, this little verse popped out of my old brain cell. Perhaps proving that the body may be getting weak, but the brain is still running on 5 of it's 4 available cylinders.
It was also partly inspired by a line from a Willie Nelson song. " Old age and treachery, always overcomes youth and skill".


Auld Age

Auld age dusna come itsel, it taks it's kin alang,
da aches an pains an niggly bits dat bugger up your crang.
Veesits tae da doctor get shorter in atween,
you book da neest appointment afore da hidmaest een is been.

Bit auld age isna aa aboot da tings dat will geeng wrang,
dir's wan muckle bonus aboot livin fur sae lang.
Auld age an glegness will elweys play it's bit,
ta owerpooer da young eens overly ös o bullsh*t.