TAE scrieve in Scots some reck’s a crime,

But heh, ah ne’er wis sweir,

Ah dae thaim wi a cantie rhyme,

At ony time o year!

Sic fowk are grist tae Wilson’s pen,

An Twitter trash wha jeer,

Ah’m fit fir aa yer snash ye ken,

Troll aa ye like; nae fear!

                    Lay on!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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THIS day’s a shot tae hae a luik,

At things fir ill, or guid,

Some mak ye smile – some mak ye puke!

‘Stands Scotland where it did?’

It seems a richt unchancy time,

Fir thaim wha’d mak a bid,

At ettlin greasy poles tae climb;

Syne, doun agane they slid!

                   Och, aye!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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TAK Lord Farage o ‘Lick-ma-Dowp’

Wha crawlt up Donald’s sheuch,

Thenk Christ that loser hus nae howp –

Goat huntit, richt eneuch!

When his MEP siller’s gane,

He‘ll suin fuin times gey reuch,

An aince UKIP’s gane doun the drain

We’ll sympathise ‘Thon’s teuch!’

                      (or mibbes no!)

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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WHILE Boris Johnson’s Brexit ‘plan’

It seems hus hit the buffers,

‘Titanic success’!? his race is ran,

Mind, he wis aye a duffer.

The lauchin stock o Europe nou,

(Boris ist ein verfluchter!)

The coorse he’s charted he’ll suin rue,

Whan seas they aa get reucher!

                        Man owerbuird!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

-----------------     

PUIR Philip Hammond tae it seems,

The arse is oot his troosers,

The national debt hus tint his dreams;

An we’ll aa be the losers!

Lik Gordon Broon he shaks the can,

Twa ‘tax an spend’ auld bruisers,

Wage rises aa hae coupt the cran –

We’ll aa syne be as puir as...

                         Kirk mice!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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AULD Scotia’s skint an aa they say,

Despite haein aa the ile,

Awash wi Wind an Hydro tae,

The Tories try tae spile,

Bi undermining aa oor plans,

Oor schemes they ayeweys rile,

Fir doun the stank they’d see us gang,

Despite aa Wee Eck’s guile!

                         An thon’s the truth!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

-----------------     

SCOTTISH Labour (ye mind o thaim!?)

Murphy’s mad marauders,

Weel ‘soap-boax’ Jim the road hus taen,

An’s wae Blair owre the border,

The ghaist o Chilcot’s no phased Blair,

Tho he wis oot order,

But voters wull hae mind ah’m shair –

Heich time that prison warders,

                            Taen him awa,

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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WHILE Kezia Dugdale reigns (fir noo!)

As Scottish Labour’s skipper,

Tho we aa ken she hus nae clue,

An flip-flops lik a kipper!

As doit as Mrs Malaprop,

She speiks lik some wee nipper,

‘Is this the button here ah poke!?’

While Halyrood aa sniggers!

                            Gie us a brek!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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MIND, here’s ae button that Kez likes,

It’s fir thon thing cried Trident,

Time she wis telt tae tak a hike,

Gin if fir war she’s eident!

The SNP they aa said ‘Naw!

Get loast we dinnae like it!’

But Kez’s mates aa think it’s braw,

‘Yes please!’ they say, gey strident!

                           Warmongers!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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MIND, whit aboot oor fitba team!?

We neednae bum an blaw,

Cuidnae kick doors at Halloween,

We aa cuid tak a staw At thaim;

didnae raise a canter!

Tartan Airmy lads tho, braw,

Micht quote thaim ‘Tam O’ Shanter’

Neckin Magner’s (ane or twa!),

                           Tae lowse the muse!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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THENK Goad it’s no Abellio,

The Tartan Airmy taen,

Their trains hud nae punctilio,

Tae help thaim tak the strain.

Puir Humza Yousaf taen the rap,

Wis he the yin tae blame?

Wha wis it privatised oor tracks,

Aye, Tories aince agane!

                            Tae fill their pouch!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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THO mind, ye’ll aye fuin sportin cheer,

Frae oor ain Andy Murray,

He’s tennis nummer wan this year,

Djokovic!? Nae wirries!

Raonic, Wawrinka an Gasquet,

Jist watch Big Andy gurry,

As Wimbledon tae Scotia gaes,

Hapt in a Saltire flurry,

                              O blue an white!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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AN gin ye like yer hamely crack,

At nicht upon the telly,

‘Still Game’ wi Jack an Victor’s back,

Wi Glesga’s underbelly.

Isa, Navid an Winston tae,

Methadone Mick (gey smelly!)

Craiglang taks aa oor cares away,

It’s pure, dead brill ah tell ye!

                               An lauch oot lood!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.

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THE National’s nou twa year auld,

Wi Callum at the wheel,

Richard Walker’s gamble, bauld,

Reflecks the kintra’s zeal,

Tae glaum fir Independence yet,

Wir readership is leal,

Fir Indy 2 bides at the yett,

An gants fir Scotland’s weal,

                               It’s comin yet!

Oan this Sanct Andra’s Day.