Pictorian Poetry

The Picts lived in Scotland

back when it was called something else – before becoming Albanese, and then Scottishland –

as you do,

or, at least, as they did,

in Victorian times,

or slightly before

(my history knowledge being sketchy at best,

they are blue and hairy,

with naer’ee a vest

between them)

and please excuse my accent,

as I am from just south of the border

by a few hundred miles,

and my accents are a bit hit and miss

I’ll admit it, with smiles,

and I don’t mean to diss

respect the Scotch nation,

I’ve even been there

and seen their elation

at the weather, and the cold;

it makes them of brave heart,

or so I’ve been told;

and porage with salt

is what they all eat,

with extra salt on Sundays,

as a “special” auld treat.

And there’s haggis and the caber,

bagpipes and neeps,

tartan and custard,

heather and sheeps;

and Nessy in a loch

whom you never will see,

and there’s one other thing you won’t see in Scotland,

which is a sassenach like me.

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