Epistle Tae Corona
Jon Foggo, April 2020
To whom whom it may concern
Ah jist recently, hae been telt,
Whit a puir haun we’ve a’ been dealt.
An a’ oor collars hae been felt;
When truth unfaulds,
Rest assured, someb’dy’s makin gelt,
If truth be tauld.
As Corona Covid nineteen rages,
The Info’s comin oot in stages.
Yer getting feart tae turn the pages,
Tae tak a glance.
Ah feel as if we’re a’ in cages,
.Keep yer distance.
BoJo, he’s in isolation,
An’ keep’n his heid doon frae the nation.
Watchin’ the workforce demolition,
By lockin doon.
We’ll mibbe need a demonstration,
Tae tell that goon.
Each morn tae justify their dues,
The BBC air Cab’net news.
Informin us wi’ slanted views,
Like fairy tales.
While we a’ staun in length’nin’ queues,
An logic fails.
Ye canny get a pint o’ beer,
It’s a’ becomin very clear,
The shoaps are gettin’ vera dear,
An’ owre priced.
Soon yer pocket won’t get near,
Four steak sliced.
There’s twa phrases ah jist hate tae hear,
One! We’re in this a’ thegither’.
Two! ‘Figures urny quite the same here,
As they wur before’.
Ah think it’s time we made it clear,
Show thaim the door!
There’s millions had their wages cut,
Captains o’ Industry sit oan their butt,
Like Buzzards, waitin’, tae fill their gut,
As is the norm.
We’ll see how much they’re gaunie input.
Wait for the storm.
Ah don’t hear Matty Handy or his crew,
Say they’ll take a hit, jist like us too;
Like a’ the thoosands oan the Broo,
Wha wait an’ wonder.
Whit’s next oan the agenda noo,
As oan they blunder.
This corona’s stoapet a’ romance,
They’ll be nae canood’lin, happenstance,
Ah’ve telt the wife tae keep her distance
‘Tween me an’ her.
This might help oor love-life tae enhance,
Near Glesga Ferr!
Some folk ah’m sure didnae go tae school,
They canny judge the twa meter rule,
An’ wance or twice ah’ve had tae growl,
Excuse me please!
Sometimes bein’ nice jist isnae cool,
Gie me ma space!
Auld Hangie’s workin overtime,
Tae stap the breath an’ douse the flame,
O’ folk that’s no onywey tae blame,
But are in his clasp.
It won’t be lang tae Church bells chime,
As he draps the hasp.
When a’ o’ this owre an done,
An’ a’bodies feet are oan the grun.
It’s mibbe time tae huv some fun,
Forget the hurt.
Don’t let they Bastards think they’ve won,
For life’s too shoart!
A’ credit tae the frontline staff,
Doacters, Nurses, Porters, Cleanin’ Staff!
They should strike a medal for their graft
For thaim, there’s goat tae be a spin-aff,
Will ye tak tent?
Ah ken in the end wha’s gaunie pey,
It’s nivver ony ither wey,
It’s ay the same when things gang awry.
The workers dig deep.
Pey the bill for thaim that bleed us dry,
Then the scrapheap.
A final word frae a Welsh Miners breath,
Wha fought for the workers up tae his death,
An’ nivver gied up the fight for their graith,
We’ll swear tae’t!
‘The NHS will last as lang’s we’ve faith
Tae fight for’t!
With many thanks to reader John Hutcheson for sending this month’s poem in for publication.