Then the methadone, as heavy as a mastodon kicks in
the nobility of the symbol, languishing in the slow recuperation
of the succession to the bed and money; was she or he worth
the hassle? and you cannot fetch the memory, put a face to the tangle
of weeds and flowers, you raise a storm of protest, it is Culloden
you think again, Aye, the thistle, that you are, you bonny plant,
you Grieve for the drunken prism, to colour this poem in Lallans,
to form with your comrades a communist counter poetic to kicke the
shite out of the poor druggy in the block of flats called Outofdate
witness to the renaissance of the "New Life", and prosperity, brought
by the EU, and nationalism, so you, go all polemical, bring Dunbar
and the history, you trammel the first part as a Sasunnach conspiracy
to trade in stereotypical train spotted fare paid for by grievous
harm to the body of literature which the bastards holiday in, take out
a second mortgage to claim your clan, your tartan, and eat your shortbread
to taste, the golden elixir, which was distilled in your blood, the punchline
of the joke, your language conserved and preserved like a battered Mars bar,
to make funny with the expression, och jimmy, och, och fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck .