He filled his Sporran full of porridge
Also stuffed each pocket of his Kilt
And with Caledonian canniness
Ensured nothing had been spilled.
He set his Bonnet on his head,
Put his Skean-Dhu in his sock,
Checked his room for security,
Before turning key in the lock.
On his way to Sassenach land
To remedy a rumour somewhat sinister
That it wouldn't necessarily be a Scot
Who'd be their next Prime Minister.
He muttered in his beard
About that pernicious tribe
Who didn't seem to understand
There's no time limit on a bribe.
He marched off down the road
Not worried the least bit
Since tossing daily Cabers
He had muscles in his spit.
Should he take the High road?
Or should he take the Low?
Or should he go by rail
And travel with the flow.
It didn't really matter.
He didn't really care;
One way or another
He knew he'd soon be there
To bang a few heads
And kick a bit of ass
Sort out the succession
Lo would it come to pass.
And the land of the Sacred Water
Would continue to rule
Those lands to the south,
Domain of the gullible fool.
