Milne’s Bar

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The evenings that he didn’t spend in pubs

With poets proved his point.  Instead — he wrote.

He didn’t see the point of poet hubs.

He didn’t need the whiskey down his throat.

In fact it only muzzens up the mind

Though worse, as he imagined, was the chat

And serious discussions down a wynd

On rhythm, free verse, ballads, acrobat

Attempts at rhyming though back then no rap

Was torturing the world of Scottish verse.

Back then for him the sonnet made the map

That promised him complete poetic thyrse.

  He might have met MacCaigs, but then he might

    Have gagged on beer and baccy blight.

~ Phillip Whidden