Eriti pikk luuletus

Robbie Burns' Day

Here's to all the sweet leafed roses
Arranged afore us here in masses!
Here's to beauty and to brains,
Here's a toastie to you lasses!
Don't stand there lads, like workless parsons:
Raise your brimmin' wined glasses!
Show your respect and your longing!
Caress their hearts -- then their asses.

Oh ye cannae blame us: look at you!
Shined and shapely, and oh so bonnie.
There's not an ickle bird that sings
As sweet as you, nor near as fonnie.
We lads are stricken right from birth
And wander dizzy till the end bell's rang,
Smitten by your girlie things,
Trying to find some sweet poon tang.

I know, I know, we sometimes grouse,
Or shout, or pout , or act 'sae cruel;
Sometimes, tru', we're apt to shout,
"Jesus Christ! She's pre-menstruel!"
But that is only cause we luve you,
Because for you we're mad as bats.
We want you in all shapes and sizes --
and no, you don't look fat in that.

Aye, aye, sure, we're waefu' obsessed:
cannae take our eyes off y'ur breasties.
For those, we conquer whole lands and planets --
Or at very least, we squeeze our testes.
We luve thine sex, thine soft pink flesh,
And so we also luve thy gender --
Even if you cannae drive the car
Withou' nae smashin' the front fender.

And if we're sometimes one-track minded,
And donnae want to talk 'bout feelin's,
It's only cos we need a snooze
Or cos the Colts must play New Orlins.
You, wordy lasses, you never tire,
can yak the non-stop verbal stuv.
You're even -- I'm told -- multi-orgasmic:
So why must I ask if we're to make love?

Is it because of liberation?
Has feminism made you wary?
Because you want equality --
is that why, down there, you're now not . . . hairy?
Your brae's a brand-new bushless burb --
A landin' strip, a full Brazilian --
hae many lovers hae ye got?
To judge frae that, it's half a million!

But we lads can't deny your quest for freedom --
You are woman, you are strong!
I have no right to expect me dinner --
and, of course, you're never wrong.
You seldom cook, you will not clean,
Much less do the housekeepin' --
No wonder we've got necrotizing
fasciitis -- a disease, flesh-eatin'.

But these are only wee complaints,
The manly version of your male-slagging.
Pray forgive us: we don't mean it --
Though maybe you now might stop naggin'?
For the truth, dear lassies, is you keep us spry,
and Viagra keeps us on you hoppin'.
You give us vim to live and work --
How else t'afford your incessant shoppin'?

You give us heart, you give us mind;
You give us voice, our inner tune;
You give us space, and room to breathe,
As if all life were just a night in June.
You make us husbands, two, three times over,
You give us bairns, an' our lives inflection;
What do we men give ye back, I ask?
Mostly gas, an' yeast infections.

So pay our grousing no attention.
Listen instead to these words o' praise.
It's nae the whisky makes me say 'em,
It's me heart, which you lassies set ablaze.
So join me lads: forgae your penis
For a mo', and sing to lassie genius.
To you, the lassies, we open hearts and hoses,
And breathe in deep your damsel roses.

IAN BROWN

Leidsin siit.