In Edinburgh

And there's a pink moon hanging over Waverley.
Hide and seeking with a Scotched egg mist.
The king of the castle has tumbled down,
while dancing the Lothian twist.

Itch your tattoo for the pink moon of Waverley.
Juggle your dreams on the walk down to Leith.
Carry her head in a split festival bag.
Her fringe clenched tight in your teeth.

Pray for the death of the pink moon of Waverley.
Let it shatter like a cracked billiard white.
Wake up sweating in a bagpiper's bed,
wearing the kilt that strangled his night.

Drink the blood of the pink moon of Waverley.
With a scar crossed face from Montrose.
Fly back south sucking on gilded balloons,
with a slashed up, caved in nose.