Explaining Irn Bru to the English
As the jaws of Scotland swing at the Swing
like a creaky pub-sign in a Jekyllish wind;
as Scottish Labour attempt to hide Big Smurfo in
the hot raspberry that he sprang frae;
as phantasmal immigration by Walterish lefties
to Beanotown compels Surgin’ Sturgeon to rename it
Greater Pieopolis, the oatless ask us:
what is Irn Bru, really? Is it safe, really?
Is it Presbyterian perspiration? Is it liquid rust?
Is it produced by an irony brewery, really?
How do you girder a loin? How do you
guard your enamel or your porcelain?
It is the sippoleth, slipping down like sandpaper;
it tastes of mechanically retrieved bubblegum
the dog consumed, producing a Montgolfier arse balloon.
The glass slipper version ate through the sole.
It’s difference in a tumbler. It’s indifference in a tumbler.
The carbonated faddomer of all hangovers, electoral
and other. Too teuch for orthography, it is an elixir
that would tak the lacquer aff the truth.
Drink this, it says: the transmogrifier of English
intae pish, and thirst nae mair for thistle milk
or Islington. This is the Aperol of the North,
the Harpic of the Glens. Oor A&E is your A&E.