Whit is it wi Edwin Morgan?
Is he looking for a fight?
Is he cruising for a bruising?
Is it cos he cannae write?
Ah’m the poet in this toon
Ah’m a poet in ma prime
Ah’m Jack Topaz McConnell
Morgan cannae even rhyme
His poems are pure rubbish
They couldnae be much dimmer
Ah’m no staunin for that shite
Fae an old bloke wi a zimmer
I ken fine whit he was up tae
He wis trying to get me going
Am gonnae put my fit up his arse
Till only ma heel is showing
He wis trying to wind me up
Wi that “wisnae me” sly dig
Me sittin wi the Queen an aw
The auld bugger’s sure a pig
Ah gave free care for the elderly
An whit thanks dae ah get, eh?
The auld sod jist takes the piss
In front of Nicola Benedetti
But ah’ll hae the last laugh
When he pops his vital organ
Ah’ll be the poet laureate
The New Labour Edwin Morgan