Van Gogh, an honest Brueghel, peinterly
Catched the wye the darg o howkin in the yird
Makks dubs o fowk amang the peasantry
Roch neive an lirkit broo’s,
Anely reward frae the styew
O dingin wealth frae strae

Puir recompense, ye say?
Mebbe. Yet bidin in the
Graveyaird o the grun
(aa touns contrive tae hap the growin girth
Wi stane an lime, o sonsy Mither Earth)
The cassies dinna lowp tae Spring’s Huzzah
Brick an glaiss staun deid
Sapless, the tree-like street-lamp’s iron heid
Cauld stane’s, the city’s bluid.

There’s wealth in touns — oh ay, the paper kin’
Aa soss an siller
Garbage, grue, an greed
Gyaun blawin doon the wynd.