It beggars belief
and buggers my soul
how foolishly feebly
I still plead wi’ me
despite the utter conviction
I constantly proclaim—
tae myself, anyway—
that it cannae hurt me
any mair, that I am free
and calm, and that nature
is my god, and time
is nae foe of mine,
only to cringing curl
into this whinging ball
of badly drawn ideals,
whimpering at how
unfair life has been
tae poor pathetic me.

So I stan’ up,
rub me eyes,
and pour myself
a lovely dram,
harshly appending
in quiet yet angry tones
“Haud yer weesht
an’ get oan wae it,
ye gormless feckin’

An’ that usually
does the trick.


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