Unco

Robbie Burns’ rollicking up-skirt poem
Was nearing its bicentennial
By the time a young American

Unfamiliar with that narrative
Was at a party near Ayr with friends
One dark but mild December evening

In the era of Thatcherite gloom.
As sole Yank among soused Glaswegians,
He knew he wasn’t fitting in well,

So he wandered out to get some air,
Finally reaching an old stone bridge.
He crossed into the middle of it,

Leaned his elbows on the parapet,
And watched the dark water under it.
It was a damp night, but not raining,

And quiet despite distant laughter.
He felt the hair rise up on his neck,
However, and had the distinct sense

Of something malevolent watching.
He turned and walked back to the party
Much more quickly than he had walked out.

When one of the Glaswegians asked him
Where he’d been, he described the old bridge
And his unnerving experience.

His friends just laughed at him for trying
To take the piss. When his bafflement
Was at last accepted as honest,

Tam O’Shanter and the Brig o’Doon
Were all tipsily explained to him,
Although no one really believed him

About the malevolent presence.
And that’s the thing, he thought, sulkily,
Isn’t it? Real weird’s ridiculous.