So I gone wrote a poem about Scottish Independence, or rather a satire on some of the English voices on the Better Together campaign. The Guardian commissioned it and you can see the video here..
Scotland, old boy, come on now
must we have another row?
We’re not so different, you and I –
Isle of Wight, Isle of Skye,
it’s all the same, a melting pot
from your wee dinghy to my massive yacht!
So come on, let’s be neighbourly.
I feel a deep affinity
for Scotland – have done all my life –
my family owns some land in Fife
well, most of Fife – and Moray –
I even plan to visit one day.
Scotland, darling, change the song
you’ve got the Englishman all wrong
we’re huge huge fans of what you do
haggis, sporrans – well done you!
Your Highland jigs, your heart disease,
your Orkney with its dearth of trees.
Your Russ Abbott – he’s on the money!
I’ll see you Jimmy! Yes, very funny.
Your ditties – Derek, Where’s the Troosers?
And Andy Murray – when he loses –
(Otherwise he’s just sort British, isn’t he?)
God bless the Scotch for all their toil
and all their lovely offshore oil.
Scotland, Scotland, calm down dear
this Bolshy talk is spreading fear
you’ll have them brawling in the streets
park your kilt, we’ll fetch some neeps
I’ll send down for a blended scotch
just stick your sgian dubh in your sock
and tell me, why this lefty tripe
this share-it-out, Utopia hype?
Some will strive, but most will shirk
lovely thought but doesn’t work –
Ha! like your youth, dreadful mess
no, stick with us, we know best.
Scotland, Scotland cool your boots
easy there, here have some fruit
sorry, sorry, I forgot …
but really, stop this “fairness” rot.
Britain’s fairer by the day
now we make the scroungers pay
and charge them for their extra room.
We’ve added to the penal gloom
by banning books in county jails
and put up half the state for sale.
Britain’s back in business, thus
the oligarchs all come to us.
Scotland, sweetheart, don’t look blue
I’ll explain the thing to you.
An apprenticeship, er, union, what you will
takes patience, fortitude and skill
with each chap playing to his strengths
and we’ve gone to such tremendous lengths
to fit you in and fell your funk
and still you pitch up cross and drunk.
Look, just as I’m not made to plead
you were never meant to lead –
we let old Gordon have a go
and look what happened, yes, Och NO!
Scotland, pal, I have a dream
of rivers pure and pastures green
where my strapping, ruddy sons
are diligently waited on
by your pasty, ginger brats
and you and I can chew the fat
we’ll take a show in at the Fringe
my wine glass clinking your syringe
and laugh about this silly spat
now tell me that you don’t want that.
Oh, and small point, hate to mensh
saying it’s an awful wrench
but if you ever make the split
you’ll fail, and we’ll make sure of it.