Burns’ Night tomorrow and in case anyone has drawn the poison chalice of the ‘toast to the Lassies’ and is still scratching around for ideas, feel free to adapt one I wrote several years ago now, changing the specifics to suit your own particular crew. Sláinte!
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.