The McConnell Log
Some smart Alex once said that Scotland will only be free when the last minister of the Kirk is strangled with the last copy of The Sunday Post. Now, thanks to Jack Topaz McConnell, that has all changed. Now they say that Scotland will only be free when the First Minister is strangled. Wee Jack, however, is much more than mere politician. Unknown to many of his countrymen, he is also poet and tragedian. For better and for verse. Much, much verse. Here, in a style owing much to lauded predecessors such as Burns, McGonagall and Dalglish, is the secret poetry of Jack Topaz McConnell.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Old Baw Face is Back
Auld baw face is back
The walkin, talkin heart attack
Auld baw face
Smug as a bug in a tartan rug
Soundbite Charlie
Naebody’s mug
Auld baw face
One smart Alex right enough
Smiling sleekit
Acting tough
OO7’s favourite thug
Vote SNP or we’ll shoot your dug
Torn betting slips
Rolls of fat
Am ah supposed to be scared of that?
The walkin, talkin heart attack
Auld baw face
Smug as a bug in a tartan rug
Soundbite Charlie
Naebody’s mug
Auld baw face
One smart Alex right enough
Smiling sleekit
Acting tough
OO7’s favourite thug
Vote SNP or we’ll shoot your dug
Torn betting slips
Rolls of fat
Am ah supposed to be scared of that?
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Ma Scotland
Pavements covered wi dog turd;
Pieces made wi lemon curd;
Drunken alkies, voices slurred;
Evening news by Jackie Bird,
Hanging oan her every word;
Ma Scotland.
Rain and wind, freezin cauld;
Slim Jim Baxter, Bertie Auld;
Hunners o’ wee men goin bald;
Sky Plus package been installed,
Hope the license van hisnae called;
Ma Scotland.
Bag o’ chips to romance her;
Fags and beer, oh ya dancer;
Every ned a Bengal Lancer;
World leader for lung cancer,
Doctors havnae got an answer;
Ma Scotland.
Deep-fried Mars bars on oor hearts;
Arbroath smokies, Border tarts;
Guid at snooker, guid at darts;
Wet, Wet Wet in the charts,
Whit a bunch of whining farts;
Ma Scotland.
Big Hen Broon still standing tall;
Wee wifies in the shopping maul;
Greggs the bakers, RS McCall;
Huns and Tims, bampots all,
Sectarianism’s always on the ball;
Ma Scotland.
Bowler-hatted marching Brits;
Carol Smillie’s threepenny bits;
Hairstyles worse than Robert Pritz;
Silicon Glen and empty pits,
Traditional industry left in bits;
Ma Scotland.
Pieces made wi lemon curd;
Drunken alkies, voices slurred;
Evening news by Jackie Bird,
Hanging oan her every word;
Ma Scotland.
Rain and wind, freezin cauld;
Slim Jim Baxter, Bertie Auld;
Hunners o’ wee men goin bald;
Sky Plus package been installed,
Hope the license van hisnae called;
Ma Scotland.
Bag o’ chips to romance her;
Fags and beer, oh ya dancer;
Every ned a Bengal Lancer;
World leader for lung cancer,
Doctors havnae got an answer;
Ma Scotland.
Deep-fried Mars bars on oor hearts;
Arbroath smokies, Border tarts;
Guid at snooker, guid at darts;
Wet, Wet Wet in the charts,
Whit a bunch of whining farts;
Ma Scotland.
Big Hen Broon still standing tall;
Wee wifies in the shopping maul;
Greggs the bakers, RS McCall;
Huns and Tims, bampots all,
Sectarianism’s always on the ball;
Ma Scotland.
Bowler-hatted marching Brits;
Carol Smillie’s threepenny bits;
Hairstyles worse than Robert Pritz;
Silicon Glen and empty pits,
Traditional industry left in bits;
Ma Scotland.
