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Wee sleekit, cowerin' Marillion Fanny,
Ye talk mair pish than ma lang deed granny,
Yer mind's nae sherp, but fairly blunt,
So get tae f**k, ya septic c**t
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast
And the grub club just got down to eat.
Ach weel, puddin’, that art steamin’ oot yer sonsie face,
Nae sae smairt now, noo that I’m oan yer case.
See this knife here in my haund,
I’m gonna slice ye up the middle like a wand.
Serve ye up wi’ neeps and a glais o’ Irn Bru,
Pund’s worth o’ chips an’ a pickled egg too,
Wash you doon wi’ some bevy fra the shop,
Watch telly fur a bit an’ then go oot to the hop.
Chanrged up wi’ Diamond Lite and some Chicken Madras,
You’re long-since swallowed doon now and headin’ tae ma arse,
Throw you up at Shuffles doon at George Square,
Dinnae want to slosh you over ma mither’s close stair,
So, raise yer glaises, ain and all, and toast the steamin’ plate,
Now I’m foocking off oot, it’s midnight and I’m late.
How fortunate for governments that the people they administer don't think
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