By Bob Smith.
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On mither earth faar we div bide Flora an fauna are aa in decline We build an drill an pull oot trees Mair an mair hooses biggit near toons Aathing noo maun be neat an tidy |
Yet sna we need ti fill lochs an rivers We cut doon rainforests so cattle can graze Mither Earth provides us wi aa wi need I hiv some hope Mither Earth wull survive . . |
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Image Credits:
GRASSHOPPERS © Steffen Foerster | Dreamstime.com
PLANET EARTH © Foto_jem | Dreamstime.com
By Bob Smith.
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The human race’s in the control The button on the TV remote Buttons on the factory fleer Nae need fer sae mony bunk tellers Press the PC start button The buttonie on a hairst combine |
A wee button ye maan punch The bricht radar screen on a trawler The purveyors o new technology Hid the Luddites the richt idea Thon mannie Albert Einstein said A fyow rows o buttons I div like |
© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie”2012
Image credit: © Phil Date | Dreamstime.com
By Bob Smith.
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A’ve aywis likit the kwintraside Doon the wye fae oor hoose Twa railway sleepers war laid doon The Ord cam oot the nearbye dam In warm simmer days a paddled |
Sometimes I aet ma denner Lyin on the grassy banks Noo an agin there wid be a splash The Ord it jined the Leuchar Burn It wis on the banks o the Ord |
© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie”2011
Noo the mannie a’m thinkin o
Is nae a chiel fae Roman stock
Nae an emperor nor a general
Mair a gairden pinchin bloke
The fowk in the Acsef’ “Senate”
“Hail Seizer” they micht roar
“The plebeians o oor gweed city
Wi them ye’ve settled a score”
Julius Caesar wore a laurel wreath
T’wis ti hide his baldy heid
Oor “Seizer” micht weer a money belt
Ti hide proceeds o corporate greed
Like an assassin in Roman times
Oor “Seizer” he wields the dagger
Syne stiks it in the city’s hairt
An the bonnie gairdens stagger
Anither Caesar kent as Nero
He fiddled fyle Rome burned
Wull oor “Seizer” play bagpipes
As the UTG grun’s owerturn’t?
Oor “Seizer” shud read history
The Roman Empire it did faa
Helpit by “ower the tap” spendin
On thingies nae needed ava
Aa ye fowk o Aiberdeen toon
Faa voted fer the “Web” design
A hope iss ye dinna live ti regret
Somewye awa doon the line
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2012
Union Street-eence an elegant lady
Full o verve an flair
Nooadays she’s an aul hag
Faa’s sprootin facial hair
Biggins they war clean an bricht
Maist wi a fine granite wa
Some noo in need o a dicht
Ti wash dirt an stoor awa
Ye hid shoppies o aa descriptions
Sellin different kines o goods
Noo ye’ve git phone shops
Sellin mobiles ti flashy dudes
Fer smairt sartorial elegance
Yon Fred Watt fittit the bill
We’re left wi multi nationals
Faa’s prices wid mak ye ill
We hid bakers an grocers shops
Car showrooms showin their wares
Local baccy shops an fruit merchants
As weel as butchers sellin hares
Shopkeepers eesed aye ti keep
Pavements free o sna an ice
Ask them ti dee aat nooadays
Maist widna tak yer advice
On pavements eence bonnie an clean
There’s tabbies an chuddy aa stuck
Faith ye nivver are affa sure
Fit’s drappit amang iss muck
Biggins up abeen the shops
War clean an used as flats
Nooadays they’re dreich an worn
An mair suited for some bats
The restaurant at the Capitol
Wis famous fer its high tea
Syne ye gid throwe ti the picters
An drooled ower Sandra Dee
Setterday nichts on Union Street
Eesed ti be aa gweed fun
Noo ye’ll git a richt kickin
As yer lyin on the grun
Worst o aa noo is the traffic
The cause o noise an soss
Maist drivin doon Union Street
They jist cudna gie a toss
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2011
By Bob Smith.
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A new player on the scene Ti keep the gairdens bonnie Oh michty me oh fit a flap Jim Milne he’s noo bein accused |
We micht bi seen Stewartie says Noo is ess nae jist scaremongerin? Hats aff ti Jim Milne an his freens Time noo fowks ti aa staan up |
© Bob Smith “ The Poetry Mannie” 2012
Robbie, ma loon, jist turn aroon
Pit doon the daisy, boot up yer Mac
A twenty-first century parcel o rogues
Hell-bent on destroyin fit lies at your back.
Wallace, my friend, when it came to your end
You were tortured and flayed, stretched oot on the rack
But tak up yer shield to show we’ll nae yield
‘til the vandals and money-men are driven richt back.
Salvation, look doon o’er the apron afore ye
Verdant and colourful, unspiled and free
Replaced by a latter-day usurer’s temple?
Frown sternly upon those fa wish it to be.
Hey Byron min, look roon the corner
And wonder, ‘far’s next for concrete and tar?’
The Gairdens destroyed? The wreckers micht lobby
To fill in the corrie of dark Lochnagar
Granite-hewn monuments, proud parts of heritage
We call on your spirit, for now is the hour
And, toonsers a’wye – fae Bucksburn to Pointlaw
Save these great Gairdens. We have the power.
Belle Mont
February 2012
By Bob Smith.
| “Fred the Shred”’s nae langer Sir He’s bin strippit o his title Noo jist a plain ex bunker Wi views nae langer vital . Reduced eence mair ti the rank O a mannie in the street Bit still he his mair millions Than fowk ye’ll likely meet . Wull the chiel be maist pit oot Nae langer bein ca’ed Sir ? Is stem cumin oot his luggies? Is oor Fred in a bit o a birr . Forced ti chynge his letterheids Titled stationery wull disappear An cardies sayin he’s a Sir Wull be chuckit on the fleer |
Noo spare a thocht fer Fred There’s lots mair o his creed Titled gadgies linin their pooches Wi the proceeds o great greed . Anither Goodwin we aa ken A bank – bit een o sand As notorious as oor Fred Fer “shipwreckin” oot o hand . The puir mannie’ll hae ti learn An iss he micht weel dread Fin ask’t fit his name is He’ll hae ti say “jist Fred” . . . ©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2012 Image © Alexandr Denisenko | Dreamstime.com |
Trees are fair perfection
Shapes ti please the ee
Soughin in the gintle breeze
Hames fer the birdies ti
Green fin in first canopy
Syne gold in autumn’s glow
Stark fin in winter’s depths
Gales blaw them ti and fro
Shelter ti a traiveller
Fae the faain rains
Hivven ti danderin luvvers
Waakin doon widdit lane
Deein leaves fae the trees
Turn inti a gweed mould
Gairdeners ken the value o
Aat fit is naitur’s gold
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2012
Image Credit: Mike Shepherd
By Bob Smith.
| There’s jist nithing ti dee Young eens cry in Aiberdeen Iss wisna muckle o a problem Fin I wis aroon seventeen . There wis cafes bi the dizzen Faar ye cwid sit an chat The famous Holburn Cafe Or maybe the Kit Kat . Syne later on alang Union Grove Ye cwid dander wi ease An cum upon The Rendezvous Better kent as Mama G’s . I learnt the airt o duncin At Garlogie, Echt an Skene Syne twis ti the dunce halls In bonnie Aiberdeen . Wednesdays – Abergeldie Jazz Club Ti listen or jive ti Sandy West Setterday – doon ti “The Beach” Faar Leslie Thorpe wis at his best . There wis ither eens o coorse The Palace, Douglas or the Palais Faar ye cwid fin a bonnie quine Ti snog up some dark alley . There wis Rock n’ Roll an ballads Maybe jazz it wis yer choice Played on the latest record players Made bi Decca or His Master’s Voice |
There wis lots o drainpipe troosers Sweaters wi necks ca’ed crews There wis Tony Curtis haircuts An ticht winkle picker shoes . Ti the open air duncin at Hazleheid Ye wid wanner hand in hand Ti listen ti the music Or waltz ti Bert Duff’s Band . On Sundays ye’d “waak the mat” An see lassies bi the score Maybe ye’d bump inti een Ye’d snogged the nicht afore . There wis hullocks o picter hooses The Majestic an a haill lot mair The Capitol an the Astoria Even hid an organ player . Ye ask’d a lassie ti the picters She wis dolled up ti the nines Ye really felt a cheapskate Gyaan in the one an nines . The faavrit meetin plaicies Fer the young an gallus Wis ootside the “Monkey Hoose” Or near the statue o William Wallace . There wis Eric, Bill, Neil, Ian an me We fairly thocht we war dashin Noo we’re aa ower sixty five An rinnin oot o passion |
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2011