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At Glesca Cross ©

(In memory of a Glasgow poet who went to seed)
Patrick Scott Hogg
Cumbernauld, Scotland

Come gether roon an hear the fame
O' a 'Poet' wha fell tae shame;
I hardly weel can min' his name
At Glesca Cross.

In weel-pack'd bars, hear his crack
Some story 'boot an auld hunch-back
Or, maybe when he got a smack
At Glesca Cross.

He'll tap a quid frae a stranger
Pay it back? Away, nae danger!
His conscience sleeps in a manger
At Glesca Cross.

When whiskey it is flowin neat
An' cronies a' hae got their seat
The blarney stain wud start tae greet
At Glesca Cross.

He's sure got verve for epigram
On Pat Lally or Uncle Tam
He'll mock Black Jock or Wee Fat Sam
At Glesca Cross.

He's turn'd himsel intae a joke
The irony wud mak ye boke;
A caricature in a yoke
At Glesca Cross.

The truth it is that's he's a freak
A one-man-Circus, monkey, geek
He turns the shamrock wi' a leek
At Glesca Cross.

His ane big flaw it is the drink,
It's got him, ance or twice, the clink
Wi' health sae frail, he ought tae think
At Glesca Cross.

A man admired - celebrated
Mooches noo, inebriated
Pride and honour weel checkmated
At Glesca Cross.

Ye see, his coat is turned aboot
Slevers dribble a' doon his suit
His views are noo turned inside oot
At Glesca Cross.

The poor sod's deid but dizna ken
His rattlin' bones, a skeleton
A leech wha sucks the blood o' men
At Glesca Cross.

A' his poems are cobbled rhyme
Withoot metre tae count the time
Syllabic slevers spat in grime
At Glesca Cross.

So, friends, when ye see his chin,
An pointed beard begin tae grin,
Lament, the brain that's in the bin
At Glesca Cross.

Now droop yer heid for he is deid
He drunk too deep in Nature's mead;
His liver took its fatal feed
At Glesca Cross.

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