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Chick the Chanter

James King

Chick the Chanter

Wi aw the strife, o' bein Chick's wife, she's nae mair bonnie Jean,
Through nursin wrath, fur that wee nyaff , a lang hard shift its been!
How he's lied, and how she tried, and how she'd screamed and wailed,
While oan her knees, wi fervent pleas, though her plans are ay derailed!

Cause Alkie Chick, though awfy sick, her entreatys dinna matter,
The pull o' booze, nae pow'r tae choose, he's never aff the batter.
He staggers ben, hullo there hen, how's ma tea no oan the table?
She skelps his lug, 'it's in the dug' cause you jist wurnae able.

Noo looking mean, Chick moans tae Jean, this could affect ma singing,
But fails tae jouk, the swift left hook, that sets baith his ears a ringing!
He tries tae stuan as Jeannie's haun, skelps wan cheek then the ither,
He birls aroon, in a drunken swoon, while pleadin fur his mither.

Am sick o' you, jist getting fu, and why I stiy Ah've wunnered?
Yer jist nae use! get oot this hoose, and tae tell the truth am scunnered!
Don't staun there glaiket, get yer jaiket, cause here yer jist no waanted,
It's ay whisky, gin, and sordid sin, get oot ma sight, she ranted!

Naewhere tae bide, he heads ootside, jist wan o' life's sad losers,
A right sair mooth, an awfy drooth, Chick lands back in the boozers.
Feelin wabbit he's getting crabitt he needs a lang strong drink,
A tune or two, wid help him through, an gie him time tae think!

He's gets a hauf, that sets him off, wi auld Scot's Mither o' mine,
He's telt tae wheest, bit noo unleashed, it's oan an oan he'll pine.
Nobody's child, gets punters riled, he's telt tae jist pipe doon,
He taks the huff, but feeling tough he continues wi his croon!

A strangled note, An erm grips throat, anither his bahookie,
The pavements bare, the landin's sair, he might require a stookie.
He looks aroon, a crammsey moon, shines doon oan whaur he's landed,
And noo he's het he shouts a threat, ‘Am coming back mob handed.’

He gie's a wince, his mind's like mince, he canny staun the pain,
A mangled heid, he's almost deid, lying prostrate in the rain.
As he canny cope, he's loses hope, his spirit's aw fur leavin,
But afore he cam’s back roon again, the ambulance siren's searin.

And it's beyond this earth, his heid finds bearth, an settles in its station,
Wan een looks oot an casts some doot, upon this new location,
Those pearly gates, is what awaits, St Peter says hello,
‘Be gled noo Chick, it's no Auld Nick, though ye might yet land below.’

And as they must, his een adjust, tae reveal a ghostly sight,
His auld pal Tam, the Bor-room bam, he screams in earthly fright.
‘Bit you are deid, Ah saw ye bleed, the borroom flair wis soakin,’
Though ye went in style, a glaiket smile, DT’s and rampant boakin.

Aye, that dark night, ye loast the fight, yer spirit disappeared,
We hid tae face, yer lack o’ grace, an tae auld Nick's place we feared.
Bit noo Ah see, that’s not tae be, anither chance you're givin,
Tae pit aside destructive pride, and yer past mistakes forgivin.

Bit help ma Boab, that lang white robe, ferr clashes wi yer ginger,
An crivvens jings, is that real wings, wi them ye'll dae yer dinger.’
In pipes St. Peter, ‘nothin sweeter, than watchin sinners' suffer,’
Bit noo and then, Am sure ye'll ken, we'll change and be less tougher.

An your pal Tam, although a bam, nae longer acts like you,
He noo can boast, a sober toast, wi guid auld Irn Bru.
Cause gingers fine, insteed o' wine, cause mair alkies we’ ur seein,
Fae that first drink, they canny shrink, and in the end they’re dee’in.

Bit ye canny boast tae those ye've loast fae scheming Barleycorn,
Like Bonnie Jean, yer bestest freen - who wants ye jist reborn?
Well here’s a plan, you’re just the man, to turn this tide aroon,
Anither chance, bit jist this wance, a message take back doon.

A brand new Chick, who’s no say thick, who shuns the pint an boattle,
Who helps the poor, extols the cure, for aw that stiy teetotal.’
‘Am no say sure, Ah waant a cure, a dram’s ma only freen,
‘It keep’s me safe, a sheltered place, fae the rants o’Bonnie Jean .'

Then oot the mist, wi tightened fist, the Bonnie Jean appears,
An tae his face, presents her case, tae abstain fae wines and beers!
‘Ah hope ye've seen, - jist how it's been, Ah keep ye safe fae harms,
Bit sober tae, Ah canny dae, it’s beyond ma wumminly charms.

'Bit whit Ah know,' she points below, and tells him whaur she’s been,
‘Ah’ve jist been doon, an shown aroon, Auld Nick’s forlorn Shebeen.
He’s goat a spot, that’s fairly hot, it's planned as your new hame.
Ye've loast the place, wi yer fall fa' grace, a' bogey is the game!'

‘Bit Jeannie love, ma turtle dove, it’s me, ye’ll ne’re condemn,'
‘Oh izzat right, well Ah jist might, cause am noo a Fatale Femme.’
‘A Femme Fatale, ma ain wee pal, ye surely must be kiddin,’
Ye’d never clype, yer no the type, yer no a manky midden.’

‘Ye need concede, ya dunderheid, we can’t go on and on,
Am aw bereft, we’ve nuthin left, an the telly’s in the pawn.
An the last ye saw, ma poor wee Maw, ye tapped her fur her pension,
Yer hoarse came up, The Ayr Gold Cup, the win ye ne'er did mention.

And mind ma faither's wedding band, he guid me when he passed?
An aff ye went , Ah fine weel kent, Ah seen it fur the last!
Tae buy ye drink, it’s aw ye think, that matters in yer life,
Ah canny cope, Ah’ve loast all hope, Ah canny be yer wife’

For in the end, ye'll never mend, an sweet things never whisper,
Like, Bonnie Jean, ma Ayrshire Queen, yer for nicer than yer sister!'
'Bit come oan noo Jean, yer NO sae lean, a diet mibbees help,
Some winter greens, a few broad beans, an Ayrshire's finest kelp.

Oan second thought, well mibbees not, an awfy wind wid blaw,
An whaur ye be, ye let gang free, an drive me up the wa.
So think again, ma ain wee hen, tae expose ma main shortcomin,
C’moan ma Queen, yer nae say mean yer jist no such a wummin.’

‘Well Ah um noo, Am oan the brew, ya mad wee gallavanter,’
Nae, mair boozin, money losin, Ah warn ye Chick The Chanter!’
‘Your final chance, fur this romance, the pledge ye must embrace,
It's the last ye’ve drunk, or else we’re sunk, yer demons ye must face.

Noo if ye'll dare, jist look doon there, at smokin Auld Nick’s blaze,
Wi pair auld sowels, wi runnin bowels, the heat, the stench the haze.'
He peeks, he shrieks, he soils his breeks, he shouts a heartfelt plea,
‘Oh Mammy, Daddy, Am jist a laddie, Oh Lord, it wisnae me!

I'll swear tae you, I'll no get fu, tae change I shall endeavour,
An ma dearest Jean, Am really keen, tae win back aw yer pleasure.’
‘Oh Lord, Ma God, this pair wee sod, its me, wee Chick The Chanter,
Am sorry noo, for stiyin fu, an fur being like Tam O’Shanter.

So gie’s a chance, ma sins tae lance, Auld Nick my soul tae miss,
I’ll be like new, wi nae mair brew, and Ah'll seek eternal bliss.
Although absurd, I'll spread yer wurd tae those that's mean and mockit,
Ah'll travel roon, as far as Troon, oan the bus or even walk it.

But jist as quick, a lang stale lick, fae Bonzo dug he’s getting,
An paradise afore his eyes, intae gloamin skies setting.
Inside the van, an ambulanceman , tae Chick's wounds he attends,
As Chick reveals, jist how he feels, through a new perceptive lens.

'Ah've seen the light, this lang dork night, the heavens I have graced,
Ah'll love ma wife, fur aw ma life, ma demons Ah hiv faced.
Am fu o' praise, Ah'll chynge ma ways, Ah rejoice in aw yer Glory,
Nair mair be seen, the man Ah've been, an ne're again vote Tory!

Past Saltire skies, they'll hear ma cries, fur peace and libertee,
Ah'll raise a glass, tae ma bonnie lass, wi ginger, juice or tea.
'So tak guid heed, the auld Chick's deid, scrawled ower some Ayrshire Cairns,
'We'll aw be fine, for Auld Lang Syne, fur we're aw Jock Tamson's Bairns!!!! 

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