Where is it ye Scallywag?
Have ye hidden in it ye bag?
Don't ye look at me as brass as bold
Give me back me pot o' gold
I will put a curse on ye, no surprise
Make ye eat spiders and flies
I always make ye feel sick
Ye thieving little Shabby Mick
I want it back! It's all mine!
I know ye got it, I saw the sign
So I will grind your bones for me tea
I will make ye live in eternal misery
Don't ye run! Don't ye dare!
I will hunt ye down, track ye everywhere
Bury ye under this earth filled clump
I will snap ye spine when I jump
Well! Blow me down with a wee feather
Look at that! Well I never!
I must have moved me crock only yesterday
So ye canna steal it away
I placed it safe and sound
Buried it there, hidden in the ground
So I now will be on me way
Doth me hat, wish ye a good day
copyright Chris Smith 2010
No comments:
Post a Comment