It's iwis cal in peterheed,
It's iwis fuckin baltic.
My hans are froze, an it hurts ti move,
Dinny get me started.
The weans their runnin in i door,
Flingng their things on the fleer.
Muddy shoes ah oor the place,
Get them aff yer feet right noe.
Ouch me it's time fir tea,
Get the kettle on.
Gather ah the weans aroon,
An let em hae a peice or twa.
Tell em ah to stop i scurling,
Afore the hale toon hears em,
Cause at's the bloody last hing were needing.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection: Volume 2
PoesíaA collection of Poems based on different aspects of life from health to love, to depression to nature
