Sundays were a trial, whit wi straw hats

an elastic under yir chin, an orders

Don’t sit doon ootside; nae paddlin

in the burn; an straight hame; an make sure

the minister disney find oot

yir cousins ur cathlicks; don’t let them

cross thersells – tell them there’s nae

holy watter left. My God!

If yir Anty Mary wiz alive, she’d turn

in er grave – takin’ cathlicks

intae Sunday school.

 

Me an ma bruther an ma muther an the dug

crossin Victoria Bridge, an three lanes

a big rid buses comin o’er the rise

an ma muther dancing a panic in the middle

i the road, an me an ma bruther calmin er doon

leadin er tae safety afore the buses swept roon

ontae Clyde Street terminus.

 

Aye, the bus runs wur the best. Sometimes

we’d catch the shows up oan a field

oot by Bishopbriggs; we wur well-travelled weans

coz thur wuz oany two i us, when some people

wur still hivin loads a weans, but oor muther

didnay dae ‘IT’…well, she must’ve dun it twice!

She’d run us oan thae buses fur oors -

ah really liked er then.

 

Ah saw er tits wance; wan Christmas

when ah wiz peekin tae see whit we’d goat.

Big white baws. Ah niver said anything tae ma bruther

tae anybuddy. It wiz like a stranger wiz sittin

oan the side i the bed wi er hons in nylon stokins  

some big wuman who hid nuthin tae dae wi me.