[re-posted because original was deleted due to profanity! ]
(written partly in Scots, as it only seemed appropriate)
I gaup at me whisky bottle in despair:
Whit’s wrang wi ye pa’?
Ye’re the Laphroaig of Islay,
ye should staund prood,
yet yer seelence is so freckin’ lood!
C’mon! Dae somethin’ funny,
ye can hae aw me money,
me poetry, me books, me life,
I’ll even share with ye... me wife.
Why the hell don’t ye speak?
Aye, ye’re so curvy, so weet, so sleek!
But I lost the plat in the loo, come find me anither one
or I swear I’ll shoot ye wi me imaginary sex-gun.
OK, ok, I offer ye a truce,
juist gimme, gimme, gimme yer bluidy juice,
yer spirit, yer warld, yer power.
Please, please, just for anither wee hour.
Ye see, I’m lanely like yer malt
and I knaw, I knaw it’s not yer fault,
but bring me peace of mind
wi yer gust that’s so refined.
Ye are me only freend,
tae the very bitter end,
please let me be yer best freend too
an yer name on me arms I’ll tattoo.
And then the whisky said:
Gae shug a blend ya mad dafty!
Niko Tiliopoulos
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/friday-nicht-haly-molly-nicht-2/
