Haud yer weesht, Farage,

Yer nae welcome in Scotland,

Hands off Glasgae’s bairns.

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I was born here, under Maggie's rule.
Living beneath her Spitting Image character
hanging from a telecom wire overhead.
The youth here knew hate before they knew love
and everybody hated the Iron Lady.
Everything here was grey; from the rows of well-worn
tenements and dirt-strewn streets to the sunken eyes
of every battered wife.
Violence was rife, accepted as normality.
A messed up reali...

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One of the scribes was taken tonight.

One of the seers, one of our own.

One of the prophets will write no more lines

in radical rhymes

nor preach them to people like us.

He struggled against his emptying days,

though yearned for contentment and calm.

Thought he had lost that angry young man,

but McGarrigle – words never die;

they’re beyond a stillness of pulse.

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