Walking By

I was a quiet man, not long retired
from a quiet job, and glad to be above
Contention, out of the race
where electronic timers digitise
a micro-second's worth of failure,
and mark your credit rating down.

I was no threat to anyone,
and was astonished when the bottle hit
my head and knocked me out, and when
the jagged stump, thrust at my face,
severed the jugular as I went down
and emptied out my life into the sheugh.

It was a frightened little boy,
machoed by booze to flaunt his adulthood
who flailed and justifed his 18 years.
"Wisnae ma fault" he told the sarge,
"Fur ahwis bevvied oot ma skull,
n this auld bastard jis' walked by."

Anurra Heed Itra Baw

Ah love ye Boab! wis whit ye sade,
nmeenma workin bunnet tae
wi biler scalins up ma nose
na yerd muck still oanmi.

Ah love ye Boab! That took some sayn,
bit Goad, amanno gled ye spoke,
furrawid nevera goat roonti it
masell, nitwis better oot.

Uv coorse Hen, it's the saicent hurl
oana barra furra baithy us,
so lean against me saft awhile
cause amaw black nblue

faera tackety bootsa time.

The Worker

I am as free as any slave
to think my thoughts and write
my hidden poems. I am free
to dream the dreams I dream
with my own inner voice.

And you my masters are as tied
to me as I to you. Do you
still watch for evidence of the soul?
What do you think you buy when you
buy me? How free is free?
And sirs, how free are you?