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culture, life poems, Scotland

JOCK THE BANKER – Tam O Shanter meets the M8 motorway


Andrew Hennessey – ScottishAndrew creating Scottish culture for the 21st Century.

JOCK THE BANKER – a modern twist on Tam O Shanter

So dim the lights, for Rabbie’s famous story
all over Scotland on his night
the witty people use as anchor
his case against the demon drink
we present oor Mags with, ‘Jock the Banker’.

When weary shoppers leave the street
and trundle home to soak their feet
when Marks and Spencers closes doon
and working folks are leaving soon
Some part and say they’re going for grub
but actually mean a noisy pub
with cheery friends it’s open late and none will leave
till thirst they slake

They think not of the miles that lie
Of roads and lanes and sullen sky
before the door of hame is reached
where intae our lugs the time is screeched
a Scotsman’s hame is no his castle
for a pint O what a hassle.
This truth found honest Jock the banker
driving home his mind the blanker
Oh Jock hads’t thou but been sae wise
as ta’en thy ain wife Nel’s advice
She’s told you many times before
your blethering tongue goes over the score
and at the pub now every day you’ve sat and drank
up all your pay,
Then that Bob the Broker gives you booze
from cask conditioned Ale you choose,
She prophesised that, late or soon
a ‘smokey bear’ would drive doontoon
and catch’d by polis without fail
your licence gone and cold in jail.
Ah gentle dames it gars me greet
to think how monie counsels sweet
How monie lengthn’d sage advices

the husband frae the wife despises.
But to our tale: late shopping night
Jock was sozzled unco right
telling woes to Broker Bob
his trusty mate in faith did sob,
They had been fou for weeks the gither
each day had drunk as if no ither
And feeling better by the hour
his head did swell wi’ laughter’s power
heard not the pelting rain outside
the wind and sleet could go and hide.
As anxious friends their conscience able
minding home did leave the table
Jock and Bob were in fu’ song,
But the time of leaving cheery throng
arrived at last be-chasing hope
for Mel at home waits with the rope.
At last in trousers for the keys
still grasping jar he downs the lees,
The rain had stopped, a perfect night
the moon was out, shining bright

That night a child might understand
the police had business on their hand.
Sitting in his Ghia Ford
with engine on he thanked the Lord
He revved her on through dub and mire
despising wind and rain and fire
whilst holding fast the leather-trimmed wheel
switching off before John Peel,
whiles glow’ ring round wi prudent cares
lest Pandas catch him unawares.
By this time he was through the lights
where the Bikers hang oot nights
and up the lane that’s half in dark
where droves of Mods their Scooters park.
Up ahead some wondrous sights
the Polis social Club with lights,
Through all the cars the beams were glancing
and loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn
what dangers thou canst make us scorn,
Across the carpark there was a queue

of Polis at a barbeque,
and some polis in a frenzied dance
to Human League they did all prance
then Heavy Metal, Dolly Parton
and a bit of Eric Clapton,
And on a garden chair amidst the decor
sat the monstrous beast, a Chief Inspector,
He with a smile turned up the tape
his minions now could not escape,
A Sairgent shakin’ all his stripes
and men and wimmin different types
eating now belated luncheon
to happy music waving truncheon.
Cadets were stomping looking gruff
clicking rhythm with handcuff
and some there were a trifle drunk
doing pogo to loud punk.
To Jock there was enjoyment rife
and spied the chief Inspectors wife
at her sylph like form the men did quaver
she wasn’t half a right wee raver,
In shouts of glee they called her Alice
the Queen of dancers in the Polis,

And how Jock sat like one bewitched
and thought his very een enriched,
His car window winding down
in passion at that sexy gown
he roars out ‘Weel done Polis Queen’
and in an instant they looked mean,
And scarcely had his engine started
than the carpark gates before him parted,
Revving Pandas, blue lights flashin’
in numbers to the exit dashin’
and from a radio in the crowd
‘catch that Drunk’ resounds aloud.
Ah Jock, Ah Jock, thou’ll get thy fairin’
in jail they’ll roast thee like a herrin
in vain Nel awaits thy comin
Nel soon will be a woeful woman
Now do thy speedy utmost Ford
this rebore job is far from ord’,
To make it to the turnpike junction
at speeds the Smokey’s cannot function,
But ere the slip road he could gain
His new found hope did start to drain,

In his mirror was a bod
A Smokey from the flying squad,
Hard upon his car did press
did smash his boot and make a mess,
The Rover was lost unto the night
but Jock did leave his own back light.
Now wha this tale O truth shall read
ilk man and mothers son take heed,
Whene’er to drink you are inclined
and sexy police run in your mind, Think,
You may for joys ower often pay,
for panel beating and respray.


About ScottishAndrew

Contemporary Scottish fiddle player, Scottish ceilidh dance caller, folk music composer, Ufologist, natural and supernatural photographer and tour operator, digital artist and designer, writer and columnist - interested in cosmology and 5th generation computation without the 'Halting problem' !! THE SCOTTISH ANDREWVERSE Ceilidh musician and man of dance Investigator of paranormal circumstance Composer of art and pictures and tunes And researcher of old Scottish stones and runes Cosmic conundrums and landing on the Moon ...


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