POEM TITLE
Thee Ole Lobster Pot
POEM
Mist cloaked hills hide land from eye,
Black water breaking at firth on forth,
Clop an chop of hoof wind drift by,
Cusses an curses of mob moves forth!
Blurred light, orange bobbing,
Picker be pointing, witch hunt’s afoot.
Wee bit lass frightn, be bolting!
What thee be done can’t be good.
Hand reachin and grasps,
Ole server she glares an nods,
Lass be heaving fast an gasps,
Laird again be pullin his rods!
Shoved long passage, dead be night.
Witch one be branded for sakes of ego,
Wrong for refusing that not right,
No longer be welcome the days of ago.
Layers flung off, others provided,
Morning mist hover cross blackness water,
Day for the fate of another decided,
Be it not time for fake hearted to falter!
Old server points to the ire of fire,
‘Ye give the ole lobster pot a swirl.’
There’d be time to serve those who tire,
'They not be looking for no serving girl.’