New Year’s Eve, St George Square

Haud yer wheesht a wee minute, I canny hear mysel’ speak.

 

[Spoken by a slightly drunk woman, as she clambers unsteadily onto the statue,

Wellington motionless behind her, crowned by traffic cone.

Sporadic volleys of fireworks cascade into the sky.

On the distant Clyde, the last heavy crane, now museum-piece, stands alone.

The flicker of a silhouette against neon-orange.

The noise of revellers dies slowly away.]

 

2014 – here’s to ye. Now that wiz a year an’ a hauf.

 

The optimism, the Saltires, so nearly defeated

Cameron, Milliband and that other yellow wotsisname.

Too close tae call, the papers said.

An they a’ came streamin’ North. ‘Better Together’.

 

But the last laugh was oors. Devo Max.

Dae the ba’-heids think that’ll shut us up?

Nae chance. We have got tae fight on.

 

Away wi’ yer cuts and austerity,

Away wi’ yer tripe aboot a’ in this taegether.

Now Sheridan, he’s no numpty.

He’s one of us, knows how tae fight.

 

He wiz on aboot revolt –

Red Clydeside, tanks in the square.

A long time ago mebbe, but we’ll get there again.

Solidarity.

 

We defeated poll tax, prison, Murdoch, the lot.

The likes of Cameron, dolled up tae the nines,

Bedroom tax for us, while they swap their hooses.

 

They’re never goin’ tae get us doon.

Here’s tae 2015, an’ a new dawn.

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