IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF GULLIVER
Sporadic movements, skyward spirals periscope pointing north.
Ancient ramrod pinions awash with eagle fleece
Describing cottages left gleaming in the sunlight of morning mists
A perfect perfidy of tangled knots awash with scorn and cotton down
A semblance of unwashed bodies lingering in the heather.
How happy the man who can see through these eyes of dew
Reflecting charlatans horoscopes of doom
Perpetual instincts of undefiled mirrors, Moist coffins inn the backwash A heralded heirloom of daffodil scents Combined with raisin balm. Die once more to the Scotsman’s valley
The dirk ready to cut the throat of the devil
As he thrusts belly up his sporran of defiance
Allowing the sacrifice of the sacrificed to be chastised
And cocooned in a malt whisky of slavery
For it is the whisky that determines the fate of man
And the footsteps which mark its Gulliver.