Burns Night

Went to a Burns Night dinner this weekend – great time, though general overconsumption of whisky did turn the post-dinner Scottish country dancing into human dodgems. This year was my turn for the “Toast to the Lassies” and if anyone wants to save themselves some sweat and toil and make use of a variant of this at some future Burns Night, please help yourselves:

Those four lassies sitting there,

Three fab blondes and one dark hair.

Great at dance and disco-bopping,

First in line when corks are popping.

One’s a Geordie, one’s a Scot,

One’s from Yorkshire, one is not.

How we wooed them’s life’s big mystery,

Fit to write in Rabbie’s history.

One’s a model/fenestrater

One’s an agent of estater,

One, designer spas and saunas,

But for teeth you go to Lorna’s.

Three found one husband was enough,

But one is made of sterner stuff.

Having kicked one out of bed,

Cried “Notts wahey” and soon re-wed.

Bairns you’ve had between you plenty,

I’ve lost count but could be twenty.

We gave the sperm, then went out drinking,

But not too much, if so you’re thinking.

Our bank accounts are all in debit,

But all our children do you credit.

Although of course we claim the glory,

But that should be another story.

Rabbie would have loved you all,

Blonde or brunette, short or tall.

Rescued from the poet’s limbo,

Kilt a swirling, breeks akimbo,

After one too many toddies,

He’d be lusting for your bodies.

Bonnet doffing, sporran swinging,

On your iphones he’d be ringing.

And though he might forget your names,

He’d’ve had some Highland games.

Tossed his caber, stripped his willow

Had you lying on his pillow.

But once his lawless leg was over

He’d have found himself in clover.

He’d write a poem on your smile,

Social media, ancient style.

We four, unfit to sing your praises,

Gaze lovingly upon your faces.

However you define what class is,

There’s none so fine as these four lassies.