My trousers are worn and pulled out of shape. My shoes are worn and down at heel. I have no food at all in my house to eat. My sweater is too tight. My skirt is too short. Without any foodbanks, what would I eat? I don't have any milk. I don't have any silk. I'll have to sell myself for a few shillings a week. Not like that man. He's very shrewd, all dressed up in his ermine collar. It's totally sickening. He gets three hundred pounds a day, just for sitting on his ass. With his big house, and his guaranteed pension, he's well provided for, in his red wool robe. His speech is nonsensical. He is so close-minded, He disparaged me as a worthless scrounger. I'll just have to suffer and tolerate it, even though they stole it our health, and our wealth, and our human rights. What can I do? A powerless woman like me To take on the powers of the parliamentarians But I cannot tolerate it. They should not have stolen it, all so they could make money from the US market. Who amongst you is with me Who amongst you will give me The mental & physical vigour to hold them to account with their trade negotiations, giving global corporations, the right to take away our democratic rights. And sue us one and all just for making our own laws to ban fracking, put up wages, or anything we like.
1. The original poem ‘Lines to Lord Freud’ appears in Lallans 87, the journal o the Scots airts an letters Yuil 2015 edition.
2. The original in Doric can be found here.
Copyright © 2015 Lindsay Oliver