The Cadet

He wore thon tank-top his Auntie Agnes hid knittit him
ower orange nae-iron bri-nylon.
When we danced the Gay Gordons
it wiz an electric experience
and Christ his oxters reeked.

Mah dad thocht he wiz a good catch
ah wanted to say
‘aye bit you dinnae hae his plooky face
stuck in yours’.

He ate ma mither’s Florence cake
hunkered doon aside the wan bar electric
his cadet’s cap oan the best chair
ah wisht we still had the dug
she’d a liked a nice bit o uniform
tae chow oan.

Thae eyes like watered doon sky wi a dash o milk
the left wan jist aff gley
comin tae rest oan mah
burgeonin bezooms
that wiz the closest he ever goat tae them.

When ah took up proper
wi Goggsy
(purple granny glasses, dark tumblin hair
n a likin fir revolutionary verse)
we wore oor lips oot
oan a street corner we kent he wiz watchin
he didnae come roon again efter that.

Ah heard his feet failed him in the end.
Mah dad wiz inconsolable.