Ma ginger wis oan the wa’,
Staundin proud like a wee sodjer awaiting inspection frae the high heid yin.
It glistening under streetlamps in it’s gless prison,unaware that it wis aboot tae fa’.
It’ could mebbe already taste the touch’ eh’ ma drunken, thirsty lips.
A’ took the boattle in haund, recently greased by chips.
Wi’ agonising suddenness, the boattle slipped through ma fingers as surely as if a’ were the Hibs goalie.
Looking directly above it, I watched it fa’.
It seemed tae drap fur a remarkable amount o’ time
Afore exploding wi’ a quick bang on the grund
Spilling gless and orange fizzy liquid all around,
