Nichts o the Lívin Deid

Kirkyaird, nicht – the hoastin yird
Astir aneath a smit-smuir shrood –
The heid-stanes thrang an ower-oo’d
Wi smot an leavins o the birds.

Abuin the muild, first haun, then heid,
The camera pans. Cue rain an lichts.
Sic dwaums are these, thir days, thir nichts,
The deid alive, the lívin, deid.

Bodies, notions, myndins, feelins,
Aw things bauchelt, jaupit, kent o,
Howkit up an takken tent o,
Biled like banes for broths o meanin,

Morsels left in foostie harn-pans,
Orrals o some life afore,
Hiddle frae the gair-gaun spore,
Drawin up forgetfu plans.

Agents o the avant garde
Cast their bouks against the yetts
On the auld recycled sets
That ween at Sunset Boulevard,

Lamplicht mirks the taigelt chiel,
Franchises an local indies
Sneck the doors an board the windaes –
Naebody is daein weel.

Abuin it hale, the provost shushes
The loons that want tae shut the pairk,
While somewhaur, oot there, in the dairk
The credits roll in pictur-hooses.