Ma man
There’s nae man like ma man;
nae man makes lasagne like ma man.
In fact, I’d go as far tae say-naebody can.
No even the Italians, the land of lasagne.
That red sauce, made wi the finest red wine,
and ooh that bechemal sauce, soaking overnight,
has ruined ma taste buds for any other.
Who else wid ah want to be ma lover?
And when ah sing, he knows the key,
the key to get the best oot a me.
B flat, D or C-he always hits the mark.
In fact, I’d go as far tae say-he’s sharp.
A sharp guitarist, sometimes strumming,
even humming, tae help me reach the notes.
Tae sound the best ah can sound;
aye he’s a gem, his goodness knows no bounds.
He’s full of fun, well he is most of the time;
he knows the rules to follow, all five hundred and ninety nine.
He says there’s more, just like the seeds in a pomegranate.
But the seeds left out are not ones I’ll talk about.
They’re the secret rules most lovers have-
the where when and why of the language of love.
Let me tell ye, ah don’t kiss and tell,
just as long as he continues tae make me smile.
I would say, he’s fantastic, he’d reply, smashing.
I have tae say, I’m a lucky wummin;
to be fair he’d say, you ur. I’d go as far as say,
he is a shining star, and nobody else has reached that bar.
He’d tell me that he’s the lucky wan tae hiv me.
My reply would be that we both saved the best till last,
That we each have an overflowing glass,
a glass of happiness and joy, life together-forever.
