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The Glesga Keelie ©

Joe Sharp
Stra'ven, Scotland

Sittin’ oan a settle in a seemit made o’ string.
Listenin’ for the kettle beginnin’ for tae sing.
Shoutin’ at the missus, ‘is the tea no’ ready yet.’
Lookin’ through the Racin’ Post tae have anither bet.

Coverin’ o’er his baldy patch an’ puttin’ oan his troosers.
Goin’ doon the bookies jist tae find that they’re a’ losers.
Swillin’ doon the heavies like a man doon in the dumps.
Smokin’ like a haddy an’ coughin’ up big lumps.

Singin’ goin’ hame an’ feelin’ pretty pally.
Stumblin’ through the rain an’ lookin’ peely wally.
Fumblin’ for his key an’ as quiet as a moose.
Grumblin’ when his missus shouts, ‘ye’re no’ gettin’ in the hoose.’

Thinkin’ which wis always awfy difficult for him.
Yellin’, ‘If I bring up twa fish suppers will ye let me in.’
Hearin’ her shout ‘aye,’ he puts his fingers doon his throat.
Watchin’ seven pints o’ heavy cascadin’ doon his coat.

He’s jist a Glesga keelie, really.
Brought up like a’ the rest, suckled oan his mammie’s breast.
Big ootsiders wi’ butter, thrown tae him doon in the gutter.
Shoutin’, ‘mammie hae ye no’ goat jeelly.’
He’s jist a Glesga keelie, really.

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