A quine ca’ed Annie Lennox
His kickit up an affa stir
Rubbishin the “gairdens” plan
Some fowk are in a birr
Gweed on ye Annie quine
Fer ca’in the plans jist crap
Ye’ve ruffled a fyow feathers
Widdie’s gang are in a flap
Ye’ve ivvery richt ti hae yer say
An hark back ti the 60’s folly
Fin biggin bliddy concrete trash
Wis thocht maist affa jolly
St Nicholas Hoose fer a stairt
Faa drimt up iss ugly wart?
Syne they blockit aff George Street
Planners didna gie a fart
Yon college doon bye Holburn
Wisna pleesin ti the ee
It seenwis aa knockit doon
In case students hid ti flee
The fauchie new Uni library
Some think it anither boob
A square biggin made o gless
A muckle giant Rubik’s cube
Oor toon is in an affa mess
Fer ‘eers hisna bin weel run
Noo if things still gyang agley
Shout “Annie Get Yer Gun”
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2012
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Annie, Annie, stop your greetin.
Annie, Annie, stop your bleetin.
Widdie’s nae changin Duthie or Hazeheid,
Just the ditch in the middle o Union Street.
Gordon Gordon get a grip
A doot yer brain’s developed a blip
The only ditch Annie wints ti see
Is the “ditchin” o plans fer UTG
A fine Aiberdeen quine ca’d Annie
Took a keek at Ian Wid’s plannie
And asked fit bright spark
Wid wreck Trainie Park?
But an egotistical mannie.
The Grunty Wib is awfy dire
But will lend a view tae Milnies Spire
Sir Ian believes he’s a’ times right
But we believe his plan is shite.
There was a fine singer named Lennox
Who said the web concept ‘is bollox’
‘The drawings are tosh’,
‘It would cost too much dosh.’
(Sir Ian is out of his box)
Annie, Annie,
Bring yer brush,
the bogs need painting,
And they dinnae flush.