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A Widdle on Mr. Riddell ©

(on receiving a rude rejection letter from the assistant editor of the Scotsman Newspaper)

Mark McKay
Bathgate, Scotland

Yir bonnie gizz micht leuk ill-less,
But tent tae thy guid-dame.
The aiple wi’ the perfit skin’s
Been foostie jist the same.

An’ binna gie’s that sated gange,
Frae praisent seilie hichts.
The ill-aff joskin puir in siller,
Sleeps aft better nichts.

An’ shoud ye git abuin yersel !
Heidsman o’ wittins blad.
Jist mind the unco hichts ye sclim,
The fa’ll be muckle bad.

A seendle wissed a gadgie ill,
Twas niver in ma naitur.
A’d ne’er met the like o ye!
Ya coorse, ill-deedie craitur!

A pestilence tae tak yer hoose!
May nits infest yer oxters!
A rattan frae yer cludgie spring!
An’ aft times veesit doctors!

May skits cam hantle oot yer airse!
An’ plooks brierd on yer tadger!
May rochians mony a skelpin gie ye!
Y’ell no fecht back A’ll wager!

Ye’ll niver dee a strae-daith man,
T’will be baith lang an’ sair.
An’ ower yer wickit saul ye’ll find,
Nae meenisters in prayer.

An when tae hecklebirnie plowt,
Nick’s gleed tae face Paul Riddell.
Ye’ll birsle ‘n’ skoosh a month o’ muins,
Oan Mahoun’s sweltrie griddle!

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