Ken Whut Mum by Scott Martin
Ken whut, Mum, eh nearly died the day.
Anither twa inches, that's a', and the bullet
Would hae been for me.
Somebody else got it, though.
A new boy, eighteen years young,
Hardly auld enough tae stand in a pub,
But man enough tae cerry thir gun.
Ken whut, Mum, eh thoct o'you the day.
That time, when eh wis eight,
An'sick in yir bed. An'you came hame,
Fae yir work in the Overgate,
An'you washed an' fed is, and left again.
That wis yir break. Some break,eh?
Sae lang ago now, no' even a footnote
In history, jist a fragment o' a memory
O'a different day, different fae this ane.
Eh'm sorry that eh didna dae better
At the skail. Eh should hae stuck in, eh?
Punted oot at fifteen, the polis
Forever at the door, whut a bloody tearaway
Eh wis. Eh jist wanted tae say
Sorry, and if eh git oota this,
Eh'll really dae meh best, yes
Ye dinna hae tae worry
Aboot me anymair, Fur eh swear
Eh'll nivir be a pest again.
Well, it's no self pity, but
Whut chance did we hae?
Beaten before we hud even begun
Late starters on this road o' life,
Like the weedy wee laddie at the skail sports,
Wha nivir wis chosen tae run.
Ken whut, Mum, the day,
Mibbe eh ken how ye felt,
Cus eh held that soul in meh arms,
An eh didna ken whut tae say
Tae mak the pain go awa.
So eh said nothin, jist wept wi shame
For the stupidity o' it a'.
An' they took him, somebody's son,
Wha hud died in the company o' strangers,
Far awa fae hame, an' no even kennin
Whut it wus, that he'd done wrang.
Ken whut, Mum, fur a' that's said and done,
Eh'm peyin the price now fur meh wrangs,
Yir silly, delinquent son.
An' when it's a' forgotten, even if it's lost or won,
Or when the politicians find somethin new-
An' this is between me and you-
Ken whut, it's you eh'll love,
Forever and ever, amen,
Eh'll always be jist yer son,
For eh wish that eh wis hame now,
Hearin the rattle o' cutlery
Fae the scullery, an'yir scratchy records playin,
An seein the green hills o' Fife,
Far awa, ower the Tay.
from
http://www.ploughmanpoemforscotland.co.uk/index.htm