Choose a previous weeks' poem from the index on the left.
Doomed, We're All Doomed
Take the Highland Clearances,
Take the land left red and sodden:
A wind-farm’s interference is
Far more shocking than Culloden.
Never mind the vicious claymore,
Never mind its brutal cut.
This is much worse. Need I say more
When my giant pitch’n’putt
Will pull heroic tourists to me?
This is like a nation’s death.
Scots will be forever gloomy.
Turbines? Far worse than Macbeth.
Every time that men have sunk a
Concrete windmill in the silt,
They despoil a famous bunker,
They betray the tartan kilt.
Listen to the wind-farm’s air weigh
Heavy on the Scottish heart.
Who needs power when a fairway
Is a Celtic work of art?
Think of history’s descendants
Hearing all this offshore roar:
What price then your independence?
What were Bruce and Braveheart for?
Golf is what the Highlands cherish.
Dunbar’s loss was chicken-feed:
Did Sir Patrick Spens, then, perish
Not to watch how rich men teed?
A caddy carrying a bag is
Weeping as these monsters pump:
Scots will give up whisky, haggis
To walk my course. I’m Laird of Trump.