Where the Heart Isn’t

Scotland: sings in the back of things.
I: am unable, swirling, languid, wasteful, whirling, thankful.

If you've ever met Glasgow, you'd know she's a pure soul:
Rugged, like my broken skin; but
Patient, kind as any place.

If you've ever met glass, go – you'd nae seize a pure soul:
Ruddy, it breaks my skin; and
Leaves me but a patient in this place.

Lochs outline the cities:
Something's got to dam up the warmth,
Stop the poets escaping, to the countryside.

Out of line, I am locked out of cities:
Some things get too damn warm up there,
Stop the post-ops, I'm escaping to the countryside.

Comes from nowhere,
A loaded bull,
About to wear me inside-out,
It's grinding mountains into molehills.

"S'where do you come from?"
"Nowhere."
"S' a load o' bull."
"Let's go inside, you're wearing me out."
"You're making mountains out of molehills."

If Scotland ever starts to sing,
I'd return, to the back of things.