-
- Had Burns, instead of his sweet bonnie Jean,
- his skills poetical for to mature
- had any one of our club’s lassies seen
- he would forever have remained obscure.
- If he had nothing but this box of worms
- Scotia would have been poorer, that I’m sure.
- Now none of us can claim to be a Burns,
- I’m no poetic master, still, I’ll have a punt,
- though let’s be clear, I’ll do it on my terms.
- I’ve everywhere avoided being blunt -
- politeness matters more than any schema -
- but it is hard when Isla’s such a cunt.
- It was a challenge to produce a terza rima
- I could recite withouten snoring;
- you’ve been so stiff I thought youse had oedema.
- The bother is this year is you’ll all been boring:
- no drugs, no sex, no gossiping or lies,
- no rock and roll, and hardly any whoring.
- But hey well, rules is rules, I’ve had to try!
- At least it can’t be worse than the reply.
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-
-
- I’ll start with Audrey, the club’s senior member,
- for if there’s something that I say which disconcerts her,
- it’s fine: the poor old girl, she won’t remember.
- She likes to let us think she’s a hard worker
- but we’re electing a third social sec…
- it’s pretty clear she’s just another shirker.
- This lady, half American, half Czech,
- for study, moved to Scotland for to do
- American history – really, what the heck?
- The club is so much louder thanks to you:
- impressive vocals for just five foot two.
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- That woman, Willow, reggles is bespeckled
- with her sickle and her fishing tackle
- shackled by the shins while she is heckled;
- the way that Willow waddles maks me cackle
- like a speckled jackal getting tickles,
- worth a shekel in the tabernacle;
- I chuckle muckle at her love of pickles
- which she wiggles when she has the heart
- while work for the Committee’s fickle trickles.
- Her modus operandi: you can’t rush art.
- Her reimbursements programme’s going great;
- any day now, she’ll maybe even start.
- She cannot walk without Audrey, her mate:
- I wonder when they’re going to consummate.
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-
- Although they make them pretty tough in Peebles,
- the thought of actually going up a peak
- fills Shona Lewis with the heeble-jeebles.
- New car? We miss your beautiful antique!
- How long before this one’s also up a creek?
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- Once there was a lass called Hannah Collier
- whom even hell below regarded nasty,
- deeply despised by all that dwells there.
- Dating’s proceeding slowly for our lassie;
- not far from giving up til she beguiles
- a hot Italian in Southsider: classy!
- At first, Michaelo seems to be all smiles
- till it transpires he’s one of Dante’s demons…
- I guess it’s back to posters of Harry Styles.
- One day you’ll get a decent boy, keep dreamin;
- somewhere there waits a handsome Mr Collier.
- Hopefully when she meets him she’ll no be steamin.
- Hannah, I’m not sure why you chose to maul your
- poor skeleton at Subway (she’s still tetchy)
- and then abandon what remains of all your
- dignity at Ryvoan with a Frenchie!
- I think he wishes that he never met ye.
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-
- And has a quiet Felicia e’er been seen?
- The energy she has is frankly wild.
- I’ve never seen a hillwalker so keen!
- Ssie ischt raschtlos und nie gelangweilt.
- She eats raw oats with soggy protein powder:
- a camping pot has ne’er been worse defiled.
- She uses what her Maker has endowed her
- with: her recorder skills are off the charts;
- youse think I’m joking, but I wouldn’t doubt her!
- This lass of the land of the Rot-Gold-Schwarz
- will soon depart, though long we might beseech ya
- to stay. Of course, you’ll break all of our hearts,
- but mine most of all. Any time, Felicia,
- Creag Meagaidh calls, I know routes up the rear
- dark and under-explored that I can teach you!
- I won’t deny I think it’s rather queer
- the things you do with chickpeas, but no matter.
- You’re keen, you’re quick, you’re cool, that much is clear.
- In fact, I think you’d make a damn good faffer:
- swoop down on distilleries like the Luftwaffe.
-
-
-
- And now we come to our girl Emily Topness!
- You’re keen for social sec. You’d suit the role
- because… I’m not quite sure, it’s embdy’s guess.
- We met your sister, and she was just as dull.
- No, please drone on about Icelandic soil!
- Poor Joe here down the front’s bored out his skull.
- And since I mentioned Joe – I hate to spoil
- it for you – but you’ve got the inferior Joe,
- by Jove, no joke, it’s Jock here’s got the style!
- Nah, write the boy a sonnet, get in the flow,
- Whatever you produce’ll beat by thrice
- your Masters thesis. What’d you got to show
- for months of hunting for the butterflies?
- ‘There weren’t any.’ Oh, and have some sense,
- cos I’ve heard rumours – I assume they’re lies –
- you’ve called yourself the ‘poet in residence.’
- You know you can’t compete, drop the pretence.
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- Tereza was our gear sec for last year.
- She helped herself to stuff: that’s factual.
- Now when she asks to loan a bit club gear
- we have to ask her to provide collateral.
- She picked up tin whistle pretty sharp!
- Which is to say, she’s not a natural.
- She’s nowhere happier than under tarp
- gazing up at the moon and stars alone
- somewhere distant and remote like Glen Tarff.
- Now what to say about Lucy Ma-the-soooon....
- she likes… to faff… mm hmmm… well, moving on!
-
-
-
- And now we come to Emilie the French.
- She seems to be nice on the trips we see her
- but my distrust of frogs will ne’er be quenched.
- Claims she’s a ‘pharmacist’? So she’s a dealer.
- Need some pills in a pinch? You call, she’s there
- at your door in her rally-approved four-wheeler.
- One question we have is, why are you here?
- Most folk are in uni, you’ve no refutin
- you were kicked out after second year!
- Now the Engineering grad, Sophia Newton.
- Your namesake, Isaac, was a man convicted,
- constructed calculus; but no computin,
- not even Isaac’s, could’ve e’er predicted
- you’d drop the Eng for creative writing!
- now that’s what I would call a self-inflicted
- inflection point! It must be quite enlightening,
- but that doesn’t excuse when you give us an earful.
- The blood boils in our veins, the rage heightening,
- and you’re an American, that makes me fearful.
- What’s your secret? You have us knackered!
- What are you on to always be so cheerful?
- Now we approach the topic of Merzbacher.
- Wait, she’s not here? Abandoned ship?
- She says she’s informatics: so she’s a hacker?
- She has strong views, she lets her anger rip.
- Poor George got an earful, full of future advice,
- but why hasn’t she been on another club trip?
- We’re cruel to focus on this list of vice;
- the fact remains: she’s headstrong and nice.
-
-
-
- On Skye, a lady gave her poles to Sasha,
- which was really nice - I mean just the best -
- but Sasha really didn’t have to flash her.
- Quick history lesson: way back, RBS
- led the banking system to self-destruct
- and left taxpayers to pick up the mess.
- Since then, the name’s so irredeemably fucked
- they’ve had to ditch the brand once and for all.
- There’s one lassie who I need not instruct
- What, these days, the Royal Bank is called
- cos NatWest’s nasty history of scandal
- didn’t stop Booth from working there at all.
- Nothing motivates her more than to trample
- upon the working class. They set her free.
- She sank the pound quicker than the Belgrano,
- because ‘there is no such thing as society,’
- that’s how it is, is it? All right, I see.
-
-
-
- Now, coming all the way from Glenmore Lodge,
- it’s Ellie’s turn! We have done what we can,
- although I’m scared what she’ll put in my squash.
- She wasn’t into Benji, but listen man,
- you’re lucky that you dodged her drunken benders.
- You’ll wake up in a tent in Kyrgystan,
- as for how you got there, no-one remembers,
- and if you’d known you’d be sleeping next to Ellie,
- you would’ve brought some fucking ear defenders.
- She’ll wrap you in bubblewrap, from your ears to your belly,
- cotton clothes for none, and no complaining,
- applying safety to the max, spare socks in your wellies.
- She’s always at her Mountain Leader training,
- practicing her night nav in the locale,
- pursuing QMDs - unless it’s raining.
- But some water should not scare our gal!
- She’s had much experience with the wet as of late:
- after all, she got on well with our navy pal.
- What was the age of that particular first mate?
- Older than your ex - always part of the plan?
- Ah, of course! He was a spry twenty-eight!
- Youth’s for the losers, let’s get you a real man,
- mature and rugged, but kind and astute?
- Just make sure he’s not as old as your gran.
- One request we all have is you ditch the uke:
- never have strings been pluckèd quite so shitely;
- we would all much rather be hit by a nuke.
- And please shut up about your nice society.
- We are all glad you had a fun summer,
- but bringing it up throws us right back to sobriety.
- To lose you of course would be a bummer:
- that is, for your carefully groomed newcomers.
-
-
-
- Now time for the main woman, El Presidente!
- To here, it’s been like getting stones to bleed,
- but in Isla Burslem’s case we’ve material aplenty!
- As Holy Scripture says, ‘let those who lead
- well be worthy of double honour,’ so
- your bit is double length – it’s quite the screed!
- I’ll start off with her brilliant boyfriend – oh!
- Not boyfriend! Friend? To me this rather smacks
- of low commitment, but what do I know?
- So far, he’s disappointing, but on track.
- What’s he up to Isla: seven minutes? neat!
- Despite that, he is never holding back
- your blossoming romance with Dr Peat.
- Don’t deny it, that launch was pretty hard!
- It’s fifth base next: that’s photos of his feet.
- It’s fair to say her reputation’s marred.
- We all regret that we did once anoint
- her President: her premiership’s ill-starred.
- Hey - you’re meant to be in charge of this joint!
- You’re seldom seen cos of the mountaineering
- meets that you’re always on. You’d made your point
- before you chose to go off disappearing
- to New Zealand… we get the message! Plus
- we’ve had enough of all your domineering:
- maybe it’s time we put you on a bus!
- Nah, I’m just joking. All I’ve said’s refutable.
- But the boys, we mean this next bit, all of us,
- so stop me Isla if this isn’t suitable
- but honestly we think your mum is beautiful.
-
-
-
- Alas, I have to bring an end to this rhyme.
- I know it wasn’t much, in our defence,
- the fact you used ChatGPT’s a crime.
- I hope I’ve not caused over much offence
- don’t worry, that is it, I’ve said my bit,
- so I’ll turn from the ladies to the gents.
- Yeah, don’t look away now, we wrote this shit!
- I see you looking at your laces, Chris!
- Wit without real goodwill is not legit,
- so boys, don’t send sincerity to piss!
- Why did God say he’d take our hearts of stone
- and give us hearts of flesh? For this, for this!
- Here is flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone;
- love, and love nothing more but God alone.
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