by Robert Crawford

Volume 10 – Issue 1 – Political Poems

May 26, 2014 | by Robert Crawford

DECLARATION

My name is Scotland. I am an alcoholic.

Sexism runs through me as through a stick of rock.

For all my blotchy pinkness, I am determined

To be less prim about my gene-pool, more airily cosmopolitan;

To love my inner Mary, my Floral Clock and John Thou Shalt Knox.

I can live fine without nuclear subs.

I’ve built far too many warships.

All I want now is my dignity back,

To stand on my own unsteady feet,

Sobered up, but not too sober, to renew

My auld alliance with this tipsy planet,

My dependence

And my independence.

 

POLE DANCE

Flapping unflaggingly in the brisk wind,

Sub specie aeternitatis,

Saltire spun from the words ‘almost there’,

Proud flag of our neverendum.

 

IN MEMORY OF DONALD DEWAR AND ENRIC MIRALLES,
ARCHITECTS OF THE SCOTTISH PARLIAMENT

Standing-stone-thin man, though you have fallen,

You marked our path beneath the Merry Dancers,

And Scotland found the measure of your name

Between mirage and miracle, Miralles.

 

DAVEHEART

St George o’ Osborne tae his richt

And SamCam by his side,

Daveheart has ridden thro’ the nicht

Tae flatter Scotland’s pride.

He sing the joys o’ Union lang

And loud through shitty weather.

His een are bricht. His voice is strang,

‘We’re better aff thegither!’

O Daveheart, man, bewaur the wiles

O slippery Smart Alex

Whose henchfolk mibbe seem aa smiles

But sound like Gaelic Daleks.

Aw Daveheart, will ye muster men

At Cumnock or Port Seton?

Nae every battle’s won, ye ken,

On the playin fields o Eton.

The Paps o Jura are yir ain,

Though nae the chaps o Govan.

The faithfu, met in Bearsden’s rain,

Look awfie like a coven.

Daveheart, your michty sword aloft

Shines like a nuclear weapon,

But as ye gang by coo an croft

Tak tent o whit ye step on.

‘Welcome tae Scotland!’ as is said

By yon auld guy in Skyfall.

Our Leader’s thrawn, an’ overfed.

Our scenery’s an eyeful.

For aa the Cabinets ye’ve chaired,

Trust neither man nor wumman.

We arenae scared. We’re just prepared.

The Camerons are coming.

 

MARCH PAST

First up tiptoe a bunch o wankers

Wi placards, ‘GOD SAVE SCOTTISH BANKERS’

Aw whit a big parade

Johann leads aa the unemployed,

A wee bit pinched and underjoyed

Aw whit a big parade

Proud Edward Milibrand and Sir Ming,

Join arms tae dance a Hielan Fling

Aw whit a big parade

The polis mak a great co-ordon

‘Och, let me in!’ cries Zombie Gordon

Aw whit a big parade

And next as far as een can see

Special Advisers check IT

Aw whit a big parade

The woofers woof, the mikes aa screech,

Big Alex blatters oot his speech

Aw whit a big parade

Wee Ruthie croons, wi mony an oath,

The Declaration o Arbroath

Aw whit a big parade

Pairched STV and BBC

Slink aff wi Nicola for tea

Aw whit a big parade

Frae Jenners, Harvey Nicks, and Thrums

There’s gamelans and pipes and drums

Aw whit a big parade

Kids chant frae Duns tae Aiberdeen,

‘We’ve got the vote at sweet sixteen!’

Aw whit a big parade

A monumental line o floats

Revs up: ‘Noo, gie us aa yir votes!’

Aw whit a big parade

Ma frien says, ‘Let’s get hame at last!

We’ve seen the end o’ yon March Past,’

Aw whit a big parade

But then dark-suited, tiptoein men

Come roun the corner aince again…

Aw whit a big parade

 

From this Issue

What’s up, Doc?

by Alasdair Gray

Vlad the Invader

by Ian Mitchell

Union Blues

by Joseph Farrell

Jewel in the Crown

by Zoë Strachan

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