Posted by in Poems on Aug 11, 2013

“And whit is New York eftir a’

but a wheen folk

an a rickle o stanes?”


The foam wis rinnin

doon the sides

o the toom glesses.


“I guess ye’re right,” said the tourist,

an went oot, naethin mair tae say.


The auld yin sooked the lace o froth

oot o his whiskers

an ordered a slug o bourbon.