WHEN Arlene’s Billies take the streets
And rich men relish Tory sweets
When Jacob channels Rule Britannia
And seeks a law to ban lasagne
As Tommy lights his burning crosses
And farmers gird their loins for losses
As England sings Jerusalem
The DUP says “No shalom”
While Brexit winter stalks the land
Behold those pledges built on sand
As Nigel sips his vintage Bolly
Will England come to rue its folly?

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OH England we were once quite pally
Like two old friends partaking swally
In two world wars we fought the fascists
Saw Hitler’s empire turn to ashes
What happened to your dreams once fair
To build a nation based on care?
You sought a country fit for heroes
Then traded it for bankers’ zeroes
You sweated coal and smelted steel
And saw them crushed by Thatcher’s heel
You let her steal your family silver
As gifts for her tycoons to pilfer

DEAR England what became of you
Which once threw garlands at the Few?
Did not your feet in ancient times
Once stand against such wicked crimes?
Oh how we need some modern Dantes
Condemning poppy vigilantes
Your yards were stripp’d by Thatcher’s lurkers
But still you target foreign workers
You watch for migrants out of France
And choose to sleepwalk in a trance
It’s not the Poles who made you suffer
But London’s chisellers and fluffers

THIS truth found feckless Dave the Chancer
A hapless chiel of sleepy banter
With farmer’s hair and coupon puffy
Cruel Scots preferred to ca’ him ‘Fluffy’
Vile fate insists on actions cruel
That turns your riches into gruel
It leaves the dreams of good men crumpled
Worth two blaws on a ragman’s trumpet
Yet Dave, this simple, awkart mannie
Had mirky depths of talents canny
He’d found the key, the golden answer
That earned his nickname Dave the Chancer

TO honest men who do their best
Naw means naw and yes means yes
But Dave soon learned what good men don’t:
That both can mean whate’er you want.
He fancied being a lad o’ pairts
With science, books and a’ the airts
Yet he knew deep within his soul
For him there could just be one goal
To dodge life’s kicks in your haw maws
You had to study Scotland’s laws
Being a brief you’ll soon be posh
Spending other people’s dosh

IN Brexit times that make no sense
Of famine, war and pestilence
When phantoms, witches, ghaists and bogles
Cap’talists and corporate moguls
Stalk God’s earth with cloven hoofs
Depriving bairns of shoes and roofs
Rumours, myths and legends tall
Hold decent people in their thrall
An ancient, black infernal magic
Renders consequences tragic
Auld Nick’s at large, a roaring lion
Ragin’, thievin’, cheatin’ lyin’

AS Dave the Chancer looked aboot him
He sought the party that would suit him
Independence failed the test
If you sought to suck on London’s breast
And Labour’s rose was a goner
If all you sought was a stauner
Booting disadvantaged jacksies
Selling arms and dodging taxes.
To him the Tories were the ones
A group who preyed on folk for fun
A band which worshipped cash and av’rice
And thought that poverty was marv’lous

THROUGH Tory ranks our Dave did race
Rising quickly without trace
When Scotland sang a different song
And strove to right an ancient wrong
Behold the most unlikely story:
Dave, the last remaining Tory
For Scotia punishment was swift,
A wicked, fell and perverse gift:
At Number Ten, a dodgy bawface
And a chancer at the Scotland Office
A Brexiteer caught in a knot:
Today resigning; tomorrow not

THEN fate, that fickle, perverse thing
Intervened for one last fling
One icy Tweedale night and cloudy
Found sparkled Dave unduly rowdy
Lurching, clutching, hammered, yowling
With the bevvy Dave was howling
When from the corner of his eye
An ancient kirk he did espy
Beyond the windows shadows shifted
Across the fields the music drifted.
“I’m on my way to San Francisco”
This must be a farmers disco

REFRESHED with swally, Dave advanced
Seeing no danger, forsaking angst
What elixir possessed by whisky
Makes men bold and unco frisky?
Then down his back an icy finger
And Dave realised he couldn’t linger
These farmers were like none he’d seen
But screeching, mad agrarian fiends
In the corner a horny goat
An ancient banjo at his throat
Too late, he headed for the door
But soon they had him on the floor

AND now on certain moonlit nights
The farmers tell of fearful sights
In Tweedale’s fields; on pastures green
They whisper tales of what they’ve seen
Sad Dave the Chancer lifted high
And from his lungs a long, last cry
He became, some say, a sacrifice
To wash away the Tory lies
They tied him down upon that carpet
Chanting: “Where’s our single market?
We can’t allow you Dave to exit
Until you save us from your Brexit.”