Irn Bru wi’ a teat

This poem was inspired by two separate tales from friends; seeing a mother feed her infant a baby bottle of Irn Bru at 9am on the bus one morning, and an even sadder tale of a mum on another Edinburgh bus, smacking and cursing at her two young children (so much so that my friend called Childline but by then she was off the bus and they couldn’t do a thing. You might want to note that they recommended that in such cases you telll the bus driver, who can stop and hold the bus closed – if he dares – until the authorities arrive).

Anyway, it should be recounted in one of the less gentile of Edinburgh accents (think ‘Trainspotting’):

Ma wean’s a holy terror
An’ she’s bin that way since two,
I cannae rouse her from her scratcher
Till she’s supped her Irn Bru.
An’ even then, when breakfasts handed out
The crabbit little swine’ll
Never eat her Frosted Shreddies,
She just lobs ’em on the vinyl.
If she disnae get her Frazzles
For the number twenty-nine
Ah can only get her movin’
Wi’ a kick in the behind.
An’ if she disnae have a Tooty Frooties
Packet in her mitt
Ah have tae skelp her cheeky, wrigglin’ arse
Tae make the bugger sit.
An’ at dinner it’s another clap
Tae make her eat her beans,
‘Cos she’s a devil wi’ the veggies;
Likes her greasy chippy clean.
So whit’s a ma tae dae wi such a lass
That wilnae eat her tea?
Keep gie’n her smacks an’ fizzy drinks-
She might get better when she’s three.