Monday, 7 March 2016

Oh, sister 1 (Memoirs of Robert Brown i)

Ah wis born Robert Henry Broon
A Scot fae Glasgow that moved tae London toon
It’s no like there wisnae much work goin’ aroon’
But the polis were efter me an’ ah didnae fancy goin’ doon
So there wis nae point in stayin’
An’ ma poor wee maw wis always at the chapel prayin’
And moanin’ tae Father Beast
Well, that’s what ah called the dirty priest
His real name wis Father Boyce
A man wi’ an unhealthy interest in pre-pubescent boys
Like that time when ah wis ten an’ ah went for a piddle
The sleekit wee celibate couldnae resist a wee fiddle
That wis the first time an’ definitely the last
But let’s jist leave it at that as it’s aw in the past
So back tae what ah wis sayin’
Aboot the trouble ah wis in an’ how ah widnae be stayin’
Ma maw an’ the priest had a wee meetin’
Efter she ran oot o’ the hoose wi’ her face stained fae greetin’
“Oh, Father Boyce!” she’d sobbed. “Ah have tae shop him tae the polis. Ah don’t have a choice.”
“Calm yer fears an’ dry yer tears, Mrs. Brown,” he’d told her. “We’ll send the lad tae London town.”
“But how wid it help tae send him doon there?” she’d asked him. “Jist merr waifs and strays. He widnae have a prayer.”
“Ah know a man that could take oan Rab if he’s prepared tae steer a hansom cab.”
That’s how it went
Ah tried tae resist but they were baith hell bent
Ah wis given some money an’ a reference letter
An’ told that things wid soon get better
So, withoot merr fuss or delay
The very next day ah wis oan ma way
Doon tae the Smoke tae see this bloke
It wid be an understatement tae say that life wis bleak
An’ the job ah wis offered only lasted a week
Ah have tae tell ye that it wis me that quit
Sixteen hour shifts an’ then hame tae a flea pit
Naw, that wisnae for me
An’ for that simple reason ah’m sure ye’ll agree
It wis the time o’ the reign o’ Queen Victoria
An’ life for the workin’ class wis far fae euphoria
Aw strugglin’ tae make ends meet
So many homeless oot in the street
But ah wisnae prepared tae sink
An’ wan night in the East End a went for a drink
Wan o’ these dingy wee places
Frequented by rogues wi’ scars oan their faces
And scores o’ whores wi’ unsightly sores
That wis where ah first met Nancy
“Two shillings or three?” she said to me. “Two for the usual and three will get you whatever you fancy.”
Ah’d jist taken a slug o’ beer an’ she caused me tae choke. “Away ye go, hen,” ah told her. “Ah’m jist aboot broke.”
“Then buy me a drink an’ I’ll ’elp you out of danger. This ’ere pub ain’t safe for a stranger.”

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