Winter in the City
Just a random
November time in CastlemilkWinters you won't missBus stops reeking of earthy scentsLike hash, and old men’s pissSomewhere else so far awayThis night air they shall missAnd on their lips shall linger tastesOf Woody Allen's kiss.Somewhere, The toenails of a yoga girl are painted,And not the streets. Not the shutters of shops.Not these shelters shielding usWhile we wait for a bus to stop.Somewhere else the sky lights up In a city that won't sleep;A bit like me in Glesga,In ma bed here counting sheep.But alas, I'd never wander'The Big Apple' – I’ll ne’er see Granny Smiths and MackintoshWill dae just fine for me.