Ishbel

Fuckn auld wifie!
It's nae lang aifter Xmas,
N wir sittin playin the new
Computer, fan there's a feart wee
Chao-chap-chap at the door.
Breether answers it.
"S'yir mam in?" she goes, near cheepin:
Ye kin hear aridy.
"Mam!" he goes. Mam goes tae the door,
N the wifie comes in, fuckn
Bawlin greetin, n collapses on the cocch.
Fuck sake.
It's no like we really ken her:
She's jist a neighbour.
"Fit's wrang Ishbel?" Mam goes, a worried.
Ishbel jist keep bubblin greetin, n
Mam pats her on the airm, n
His the fuckn cheek tae say
"Pit on the kettle will ye, Mike".
Ah go ben the hoose in the huff,
N mak twa cupsa coffee.
Ah hear Ishbel gan, "It's jist
Nae the same since Davie deid,
It's aye worst at Xmas," still
Fuckn bubblin.
See Mam, she's too saft.
A fuckn charity, specially
The time a year, ken?