Lit me say richt awa,there wull be blue sna
Afore ma fantasy predicshuns cum richt
Bit lit us aa pray, there wull cum a day
Fin warld poverty’s nae langer in sicht
The Donald wull state,”Michael Forbes a’ll nae hate”
“An at winfairms a’ll nae hae a glower”
Afore is cums true, naebody’ll be on the broo
An hell itsel wull freeze ower
The Dons’ll aye win, their fan’s wull aye grin
In Europe Man Utd they’ll crush
Their play wull be racy, fin they sign Lionel Messi
An the green an white hordes they wull hush
Gaza Strip wull hae peace,an Israelies they’ll cease
Tae bigg on Palestinian grun
Fowk wull feel better, an guns winna maitter
An fae shell’s young bairns winna run
In oor Aiberdeen,the cooncil cums clean
An tells us aa fit’s gyaan on
Nae diggers wull dig tae bigg a new brig
Throwe the streets o puir Tillydrone
Sir Ian wull depart, in the puff o a fart
Wi his 50 odd million in a hurry
He’ll dee much mair gweed, if Africa’s hungry he’ll feed
An aboot webs an gairdens nae worry
Fit the future micht be, we’ll jist wait an see
Wull ony fantasy predicshuns cum true?
If only een wis fulfilled, a wid be richt thrilled
So a’m hopin the sna wull turn blue
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013