The Lord’s Rear

(Written partly in Scots)

Curmudgeonly Father, who farts in sevens,
harrowing is thy name.
Thy doorbell is rung, but thy remote remains clung;
surfing channels takes dedication.
Gie me this day ma fortnightly call
an’ let us share thochts on the Gers,
as eleven men are simpler to ken than two.
Lead us naw into stagnation
But deliver sum jokes; gie them laldy
For thine is the boredom,
The wows an’ the yups.
Blether and blether.
Ah’ll listen.

This poem appears in From Arthur’s Seat