by Alec Snoddie

Oh what a pass we’ve reached, dear wife,
worn down by constant stress and strife,
the arguments like knife on knife,
    the world grown dreary.
Of all but gentler drums and fife 
    my heart is weary.
Once, and counting this no fault,
I lived at a lick with hardly a halt.
You mind when I glaggered for sweet and salt
    and was hearty and beery?
But now I am wed tae the merciless malt,  
    and oh, my dearie!


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