Did ye see that?  
In amang the chefs, the sofas,
Weatherwummn an the fitba
Free-wheelin up yon street
Sharp left it went, slowed doun,
Sneaked in an open windae
Atween the purple curtains.

Bits o bristle there’ll be, babes’ airms,
’Mang sofas, chefs, weatherwummn,
A trousered leg, a heid or two,
Yon fat-bummed yankee doodle
Cruised in their windae, howdy-doo!  
Blood and gore the kitchen wa,
A Jackson Pollock it’ll be.

The bus queue laughed at me,
A clip like that’s no real!
Stey cool, it’s just a pictur show,
Nae mair or less than a the rest.
A wawr? Can it really be?
’Mang a the weel-kent faces,
Chefs, sofas and weatherwummn.

One thing’s sure a lassie said
Porno’s no jiss buff cavortin’,
It’s the fatso, Stormin’ Norman
Yon medal chestit Shwarzkopf,
Wi a his general’s clobber on.
He’s carpet bombed the Basra Road,
A Turkeyshoot the papers said.

An empty bus heaved up,
Still... the queue kept watchin
Every size o TV screen,
The weans cartoons, petite Lorraine,
Chefs, sofas and weatherwummn.
On one or two the missile,
Atween the purple curtains.

Alastair Mcleish formerly taught Politics at the University of Aberdeen. 21st-century Poetry is edited by Andy Croft, email [email protected]