He's Nae Homer

It’s that time ay year fur a Mister Burns,
wha impressed the world wae lyrical turns.
This Ploughman Poet fae doon near Ayr
enjoys eez spoils coz he dared tae play
wae witches chasin’ Tam O’Shanter,
mice ‘n’ men ‘n’ full decanters.
Eez love ay wummin upset the kirk,
though fae conflict he refused tae shirk.
But a man’s a man ‘n’ aw that shite.
Haggis ’n’ tatties?
Naw, no th-night.

Th-night’s the night some’ll share a line,
tae toast ma brother’s ain decline.
Wae kilts ‘n’ chookters naewhere seen
as guests fae Scotland’s jails and schemes,
aw gather roon and talk ay times
ay dealin’ drugs ‘n’ violent crimes,
wae converted guns ‘n’ lockback knives,
unruly weans ‘n’ battered wives.
But a life like that is a life ay shite.
Cocaine ‘n’ Moet?
Naw, no th-night.

Ah’ll sit ba masel ‘n’ reminisce
ay aw the times when we wur kids;
him spearing a jellyfish by The Clyde,
while mullet jumped tae escape the tide;
th-gither we wur oor mother’s pride,
‘n’ when Da wiz drunk he’d help me hide,
then pick me up ‘n’ run tae Gran’s,
where eyes wur rubbed wae shakin’ hands.
But naebody wants tae hear that shite.
Wull Ah shed a tear?
Aye, mibbe th-night.