Sauchiehall street, mobbed wi Christmas shoppers,
reluctant dads hing aboot shop doorways;
Primark, Millets, TK Maxx, Pound Crazy,
gairdin wares bocht by their ‘Shop-till-ye-droppers!’
Sad tae say, ah wis ane o these faceless men,
condemned, the day o the thowe, tae ‘miss the gemme’,
sae, insteid, ah ‘people-watched’ at H&M;
Giein the ‘Manto’ marks oot o ten!
The air wis thick wi music o aa sorts;
Kiltit drummers an pipers, giein it laldy!
an auld ‘gut-scraper’ strugglin wi Vivaldi:
Dressed as shepherds, a lively brass consort.
Buoyed up beggars held oot hopeful haunds,
accompanied bi the ‘Sally-Airmy’ baund.

The music rose an fell, a plaintive air
wid be replaced bi ‘O, Come all ye faithful!’
syne drums tattooed wild reels upon yer skull,
as evri genre vied tae win its share.
In the midst o this cacophony,
a stoic auld Red Indian keyboard player,
whaes music held a souch o mountain air,
sat doun upon a binch, wearily.
He wore the biggest eagle-feather headdress,
that ah hae e’er seen in aa ma days.
A Jakey, in a Santa hat, juist gazed,
souped up oan ‘Super Lager’, he’d regressed,
tae some wee boy, hauf loast in disbelief,
then oaffirs him his can, ‘Y’aaricht, Chief?’