Yes, I am Burns, please let me be,
Don’t put my face on packs o’ tea,
Don’t pipe in haggis in my name,
Or quote my words t’ impress your dame.
There is no Shakespeare night down South,
Where Hamlet’s words the mob does mouth,
Nor Whitman night with leaves of grass,
Where pretty boys must show their arse.
So, please, let Rabbie Burns alone,
Don’t have my songs as your ring tone,
Don’t sing your eulogies in my name
And use my words for your own fame.
I never wore those tartan trews,
Nor heather sash nor buckle shoes,
So, please, to let me lie at peace,
These annual nights have got to cease.
For I am one dead Scottish bard
Who’s finding life so very hard,
The other spirits laugh at me
When you serve haggis at your tea.
So ditch your themes, they are a fright,
And host an Andy Stewart night.