This poem in Glaswegian dialect was inspired by the blasphemous theft of the baby Jesus out of the crib in George Square in 1995. I mean, how low can you get?
(Wonder if this one is for Scots’ eyes only?)
Fell aff the back ae a camel ye say?
It’s no’ exactly Tiny Tears, is it?
Ideal stocking filler fur Christmas Day?
But it disnae wet its nappy, does it?
Ra polis’ll be roon at the Barras
tae see who it was that oot-Heroded
Herod, and made a’ the fowk as faur as
Drumchapel fair scunnered by whit some scum did.
No’ a town greatly given tae mangers,
nostalgia, pathos, Christianity;
more interested in Celtic, Rangers….
(their religion); used tae profanity.
But takin’ Christ fae innocent weans!
Whit-in-the-name kinda humanity
wi’d take away oor right tae be merry;
skedaddle wi’ it up their jooks, calmly?
Probably scruffs on the Q.C. Sherry;
sacrilege done tae the Holy Family!
Nae crib furra bed; nae Jesus either!
Glesca’s coat o’ arms wi’ Mungo’s motto
isnae respected nooadays neither.
They took the babe fur lead….oot the grotto;
wurnae bringin’ Gold, Myrhh, Frankincense.
Mind you, it could hae been Pastor Jack Glass-
he didnae like Catholic idolatry.
But naebdy’d spray-painted ‘The Pope Ya Bass’
on George Square’s shrine tae Mariolatary.
So jist suppose they didnae know where He’s laid-
mebbe the Almighty, wi’ indignation,
emptied the crib ‘cos they didnae deserve
epiphanies on Clydeside. A nation
apostate? Mayhap He’s no goin’ tae serve
ony mair, but is coming back tae judge
The City of Culture….once so-called,
because they widnae gi’ up their ways, budge
an inch…frae posh Giffnock, tae Cumbernauld.