Tangled up in branches thought
By minds above ma hied.
But rooted in the same orchard
As the fruit that they have reaped.

I’ll never match the chalk an’ slab
O’ these words that weigh me doon.
But I guess I could’a sat wi Rab
In his Tam O’ Shanter toon.

So Wise minds may well think alike,
But thinking’s afy rare,
In a land where glossy, absence
Fights against the minds repair.

Ach Darwin! whit would ye mak o’ this?
You’d be cringin’ at their needs!
And tellin’ folk tae “wisen up,
Or yer kids’ll no hae hieds!”

So Scotland to the Modern World
Wi a fanfare an’ a charge!
But “Scotland” is a modern word so
Wha’r is it we’re ga’n tae, Sarge?