Jan 242013

By Bob Smith.

Menie’s a mess,
A hiv tae confess
Trumpie’s coorse his an extra hole
Near the 4th tee,
Fit a tae dee
Mither Naitur his noo teen her toll
A’m nae aat surprised,
The chiel wis advised
Nae tae meddle wi the shiftin sands
Trump stuck oot his chest,
Sayin a ken fit’s best
Bit watter’s teen things oot his hans
Like King Canute,
The Donald fun oot
Watter  it aye his the last say
If yer drains are nae gweed,
An they stairt tae ”bleed”
Wee burns they flow like the Tay
Noo a wee narra road,
Tae the Munro’s abode
Is churned up wi mud an potholes
Efter  larries fae afar,
Hid roched up the tar
Ye’d think there’d bin an invasion o moles
Amang aa the dunes,
Lurk Trumpie’s big goons
They mak yer waak richt fractious
Fin they div folla,
Ower hump an holla,
An maybe use ye as target practice
It’s plain tae see,
Aat the orra numptie
Hisna heard o the “Richt tae roam”
Wull The Donald desire,
Tae erect barbed wire
As at the mooth he dis foam
So Trumpie ma freen,
If advice ye’d teen
An the shiftin dunes ye’d by-passed
Aathing micht hae bin fine,
If ye’d shifted the line
O yer gowf coorse a wee bittie wast
Bit fowk like yersel,
Fowk nivver can tell
So Donald ye’ll learn the hard wye
Mither Naitur she rules,
Ower eejits an fules
An fowk faa think they’re richt fly.

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013