Lunchtime with the Piper

The piper with the auld grey beard

Who spoke as soon as he appeared,

Both soon wore out his welcome and the new seat of his kilt.

The Campbells (whom the others hate)

Thought out their schemes, both small and great,

And made a living diving for the silver-coloured silt.

The piper got off in a huff

He said, ‘They think I’m Peter Brough,’[1]

Who speaks without a tremble or a flicker of his lips.

But I am more like Elvis P,

Whose Rock ‘n’ Roll is ecstasy,

And who could pull more crumpet with a flicker of his hips.

The piper spoke of ages past,

And men who sailed before the mast,

And when the 6.5 Special ran on time,

And of Don Lang and Hayley Bill

Who gave his boyhood days a thrill,

When men drank ale as men should do, not alcoholic lime.

The Campbells listened to his tale,

And watched the piper turning pale,

And some wept in their sporrans (though I saw a couple smirk),

And when the talk had turned to frogs,

And sassy knacks and English dogs,

The piper said, Well stuff all that, I must be back at work.’