The groaning Long Finance ye fill,
Your hurdies like yon John Stuart Mill,
Your pin wad help to jump a Cliff
In time o'need,
As yon Obama needs yon Geithner
In time o'nightmare
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
Wee Milliboy saw nae but slight
An' missed the point o whit oh whit
His brither ditched
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Salm-ond, maist like to rive,
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' ravin
On sic a Ratin?
Poor Bruegel! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Z/Yen-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Z/Yen wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
Gie him a haggis!
By George Littlejohn, 25 January 2013