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[Lyrics composed
by John on 10th November, 2005 to a
Sue Keller rag]
Gabriel went to the Lord and said, "I'm needing an Almighty hand
God, from You.
We have a lot of wild Scotsmen up here and I don't know what to
do."
"They've thrown away their halos.
They've all taken off their togas.
They've put on their kilts and tammies.
They're causing such unholy rammies.
Please, for Heavens sake, will You not tell me what to do?
They dance .... their eightsome reels,
Shouting 'Hooch'!
Pearly gates now's place for what seems endless linked-up chains
and wheels.
They've used Your horn as bagpipes.
Thrown-off robes used as sweat wipes.
Never were there such untamed types.
What's to do?
All their harps are in the waste-bin.
All their wings just wilt from such sin.
Their weird mouth-music's just a din.
Seems with them we cannot win.
They have porridge for their breakfast.
Cold peas-brose for lunch I have found.
Then have oat-cakes for their supper,
With Scotch wash-down!
They refuse to keep stairway
Up to heaven all spick and span,
And leave their greasy chip pokes
Strewn all over our land."
The Lord said, "But Scots are Scotsmen.
Heaven is home to all my children.
If you want to learn of problems,
Phone the Devil, and you will soon find out
You've got much less than him ... to ever moan about.
"Be of good cheer, it's Nick here.
Hold on a moment while I knock right back another pint of
scalding beer.
So you are curious to know of my problems here below?
Hold on again! Something's on the go!"
After five minutes Nick returned.
"A question about those I haven't burned?"
Gabriel said, "What kind of problems do you have way down
there?"
The Devil said, "I don't believe it ....
Hold! I'll investigate what is
Wrong with the Scots' furnace in the pit."
This time auld Nick stayed away,
For more or less half the day.
Grabbed the phone with furrowed brow,
"Cannot speak to you much just now,
But merely tell you this one thing,
And it's very bad news I bring.
These damned Scots first doused the fire, then
Install'd air-conditioning!" |
