Tartan hearts

* tartan hearts *
Oh woven tartan flying
Potential haggis baaing
All the heather blooming
And bagpipes aural braying
This must be Scotland
Land of high roads and low
Where friends compete on different paths
To be there before you
And when a moon full blazes
The excretions of Burns unleashed
As if an ability to churn consonants and vowels
Murder the language of the occupiers
As if so much stinking silage
Deserved Burns be greatly respected
When in fact at any other time
Have been pushed back to hedgerow or pub
To teach or drown his sorrows
To act as if the Scotland of imagination
Had never been and had never succumbed
To those philistine invaders from the South
With their stereotypes of how the Scots must be
As if every kilt and sporran
Meant more to Scots than freedom
Offering fashions irreconcilable
As the Judas silver
For accepting a Southern monarch
With southern lords and soldiers
Who now could partake of Northern lands
And run the locals from their plots
Bring in cattle on emptied land
To chew and dullily gaze
As the children of Scotland starved.