"Are ye dancing?"
Torry rock, an Bon-Accordion jive.
Queen B. o the hive.
"Na. It's jist the wye I'm staunin."

The raws o wallflooers wilted,
Batted petal-een o scunner an mascara
Fashioned tae be jilted ...
Fairies frae last year's Yuletide tree
Fushtie scent, an tinsel-clartit frocks.

Seamen, catchless, trawled a petticoat herbour
Shoals o quines, sma sprats
Ruggit at anchor
Fair bait fur some
Commercial traiveller's sampler.

(Fish-net stockings, amply fu)
Goose-pimpled, lauchin, chilly, in the fridge
O a caress. (Nae Latin swain's largesse).
In Aiberdeen, a Mither Hubbard larder.
The music stounin harder. "Can I wauk ye hame?"
Subtle's an articulated larry
A baritone as blae as Rubislaw quarry
Gey Gordon on the haik

Pre-contraceptive-pill days
Crossed-fingers, ram-rod-will-days
"Ay. Fur a weddin cake!"
Fox-trotted intil matrimony
(An oot o it, by chance)
I still adopt the wrang stance
Aywis oot-o-step
Alane, at the last dance.