Disheveled, redheaded, weird
Crooked teeth and a crooked smile
And a thirteen-month-old beard.
It doesn’t matter what they think
There’s more to that Scotsman
Than what’s on the outside.
Despite a little belly-bulge
Erect he’ll always stand
Flashing that crooked grin of his
Weathered bagpipes in his hand.
Thrusting forth his glass of ale
High above his head
Unlike his selfish brethren
He toasts to others instead.
He’s a knight in shining manskirt
Although made fun of from behind
As strange as it might seem
He doesn’t seem to mind.