To a Gallant Baggage Handler
(with apologies to Robert Burns)
'Twas doon by Inch o’ Abbots
Oor Johnny walked yin day
When he saw a sicht that troubled him
Far more that he could say.
A fanatic muslim bastard
Wiz doin' what he’d planned
And intae Glesca Airport's hall
A Cherokee he’d rammed.
A big Glaswegian polis
Came forward tae assist
He thocht, “A wumman driver!”
- Or at least some guy half-pissed
But to his shock nae drunken Jock
Emerged to grasp his hand
But a flamin' Arab loony
Frae yon Al Qaeda band
The mad Islamist nutcase
Had set hissel’ oan fire
And swung oot at the polis,
GBH his clear desire
'Hey, that’s no richt!' oor Johnny cried
And sallied tae the fray.
A left hook and a heid butt -
Nae bother! - saved the day.
So listen up Bin Laden:
Yer sort’s no' wanted here
For imported English radicals
We Scotsmen huv nae fear
Oor hame-grown Glesca Asians
Will have nae bloody truck
So tak yer world-wide jihad
An' get yersel' tae Fuck!
The poem's nowhere near the standard of Burns, I'm afraid. More like McGonagall (on a good day.)
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