Ma laddie’s heid is lik a paper poke

that’s bin crumpilt in a baa.  It’s bin lik

that sin the day e wis born, which wis bae

aa accoonts a bit o a ticht squeeze.  Nae

hin much can bide in it; at least, no fur

ony length o time.  E firgets, ye see.

It’s no e’s faut, though; it’s juist e’s natur;

an A widnae hae’m ony ither wee.

But yon Philip Pullman fellae… e pirls

tales that fill ma laddie’s heid wi picturs

that fair crackle oot the cramps an coarners

o’s mind, inflatin e’s sense o the warls

that micht be, an puffin oot the puirtith

o e’s imagination wi their braith.