Postcards from Malthusia DAY TWENTY-THREE: George T Watt

Faw’s wark? 


Is this yer mysterious weys?

Dae ye manifest yersel as ae virus,

Ae wee ill trickit cell, like ae moudie

That chyaves awa hiddled in the bluid?


Is this hoo ye rax yer pooer?

Whiles gangin fur the aul an infirm,

Whiles ye scythe doun the fit an heilthy,

An whiles ye breenge ower aabiddie.


Ebola, Blek Deith, Spanish flu, or

Corona, that traipses ower the wurld,

Ilka wunter nebs rin wi caulds an flu,

Yer wey o mindin mankin faa’s the Maister?


Are ye ane o thay wee cells,

An us, yer eimage, div we fuil wirsels?

Nae mair than thoosans o yer eimage

Clannit thegither intil this human mask.


An div ye whiles tak an easy wey,

Wirm intil the brain o some leader,

Preses, monarch, dictator, prime meinister,

Warp thair sowl tae mass murther?


Or is yon yer alter ego’s wark?

The deil hissel oot tae eimulate,

onythin ye can div, like the sang,

Aye he can, no he cannie, aye he can…



George T. Watt bides in Arbroath and screives exclusively in Scots. He has been published in various magazines an anthologies. He has a new collection ready tae surprise the Wurld cried, Furth Frae The Darg. Tae be ready fur release after lockdoun.

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