For all sine lang, a wave
Bye bye for seas between us
Baith hae roared our tonsils hoarse.
A hoarse? Whit's it daen at the Rangers end?
For Bertie Auld a spline, my dear:
Reset that gnathous grin.
You point: a bovril and a bacon roll. No, gies a pie.
A spy? There, elbow-crawling up the park,
Night vision trained on Dobbin's jaw
Hingin open like a sock drawer. No, that's Bertie.
Special forces. One of them? The swine.
Sine out that gless and pour yoursel
Wan fifty faithoms deep. And here is a sign for you:
The spine on the rose. The last defender
And the open goal.
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