Bearing a keg or two of Kentucky bourbon,
and a crate of Trotter wine,
Salmond wears a wry smile, as his prodigy,
Sturgeon, of legless donkey fame,
proclaims: this night belongs to us!
You, my people, my subjects! And,
as lowlanders leave bars and pubs
to crawl home, being now legless too,
the pipers at the gates of dawn,
air-cooled as befits a man,
loop discarded tartans on heads instead,
where the Barnett formula should be!
And London becomes
a third richer.
(NB. This poem was censored from being re-published on UKAuthors (long after it had been published here on ABCTales), after I took it off to remove sabotaging comments tagged to it by others, including a fellow-exiled Scot. My Ultimatum to Admin, publish it again in untarnished form, or I leave - with them refusing to do so, I left, removing all history.)