Epistle to Ben Mitchell
My auld frien Ben have you demurred
A man's only as good as his word
Are we likely tae hae wordy clashes
And jist for a measly load of ashes
You promised truly to come and see me
But aw you've done is sadly gree me
A Stinston man you never hae tae yoke
They're aw sic decent and trusty folk
But maybe I'm jist a wee bit hasty
It's no my nature tae be sae nasty
But surely Ben you have a reason
A frein let doon's a sair affliction
But I maun wait to hear your answer
And the Hood vows your no a chancer
I havna sae many port of calls
But Saturday mornings one in Smalls.