The trials of Jim When west end ladies meet for gin And say the nights are fair drawing in In pubs where bankers sing their chorus “How massive will be this year’s bonus” As we both eye a last Bacardi And risk some wrath for being tardy We praise the Lord for Transport Scotland And icy roads we could get lost in We talk of Celts and watch the clock And ask: “Do you play heavy rock?” And though our blessings may be few We’re better off than Prince Andrew We doth recall a chilling case One night lost in Time’s embrace Of a student bar in old Strathclyde Where they pretended to be wide Ah, memories of Strathclyde Uni Where lassies once wore naught but goonies And where you rarely e’er did slumber Without first having got a lumber And lads could gain a double first For simply not being deemed the worst Behold Good Jim, a sonsie character Who some had thought must be the janitor (For nine long years he’d secured grants A quite unusual circumstance) Most evenings found him ravin’, shoutin’ For with the drink he oft got howlin’ And by his side thon trusty loon A flaxen Fifer they called Broon Hatching plots and stratagems To help the Red Rose win again Then one cold night both foul and fell After the barman rang his bell Their path home lit by winter moon Jim quickly stopped and turned to Broon His words have since passed into lore “Big man, it’s this: let’s ditch Clause Four”. Then upon Broon didst fall a passion; His face contorted; his teeth a gnashin’ “This day be cursed and you Jim with it, You yowlin’, howlin’, blitherin’ idjit. Your face grow thin and your yolk be heavy You are now condemned to no more bevvy.” Poor Jim, the Guinness had gone sour And fled he east to fret and cower, Up the High Street he did stumble Sweating lest he take a tumble Up past General George’s Carpets Turning left ere Barras markets Groping blindly in the mirk Until he reached auld Glasgow’s Kirk And there the great necropolis Among the dead perhaps some solace While Jim did think on his folly, He spied a glow, a light unholy, Up from the crypt its fingers crept And in Jim’s soul a terror leapt. What were these embers that did glimmer Making entrails boil and simmer? Then a sound, a sepulchral moan Of pipes and drums, a hellish tone. An infernal din all dark and waily Like the worst of Capercaillie. Into the chapel Jim did venture Fearing a demonic censure Down the steps he was impelled By force that could not be withheld Then lo he came upon a wonder, That shone and tore his sense asunder A writhing mass of quines and chiels Dancing diabolic reels. With painted faces and hairy armpits They brandished Scotia’s lion rampant Jim froze in terror, tight grew his slats “The vile, perfidious cybernats” But one amongst them caught his eye, A barefoot wanton fleet of thigh Who twisted, twirled her eyes like fire, And inflamed in him an old desire. Who was this wench with lips so willing, Wearing a frock by Karen Millen? But even as his eyes did feast The vile cacophony did cease. He heard, though he was full of swally: “Give us the Internationale!” Poor Jim was rapt and all at sea; He’d lost himself in this melee With salty tears his eyes grew dim At this long forgotten hymn. Suddenly he lost his bearing Sensing they were snarling, swearing Upon him their stares now harsh He scarce had time to save his arse. In vain he looked for a way out And loud they all began to shout “Into this body we cannot allow Those who failed to keep The Vow.” Yet fear ye not for our Good Jim We had not heard the last of him Was this not Jim, the Tory basher Who made East Ren a Red Rose smasher? Stood by the wall a 10-speed-racer To outstrip any wicked chaser And when he reached the River Clyde He knew in his own bed he’d bide The cyber swarm hate running water They’d rather lumber Auld Nick’s daughter theguardian/commentisfree/2015/jan/24/the-immortal-ballad-of-sonsie-jim-and-broon
Posted on: Sun, 25 Jan 2015 15:47:02 +0000
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