Charles street, the coldest street in the world,
well that’s what he told me, as he smiled, reminiscing.
Memories came flooding back, as he spoke
about Kennedy street school, and where he learned French.
He had wanted to learn to play the fiddle,
but he didn’t want to be called a fanny.
Big boys in Glasgow didn’t carry a fiddle to school,
oh no that just wisnae happening.
So he never pursued that dream, plagued with fear that
it might make him look weak, make everyone stare.
Instead, he drank, fought and gambled everything,
in the hope that this would make him fit in.
A wee guy in stature, but not to be messed with;
his rage fuelled by fear made him rather severe.
Things could’ve been different, if he’d got that fiddle-
no gambling or fighting, or time in the Bar L.
But when he laughed, oh boy he laughed loud,
and he walked high and steady-he was very proud.
On his final journey, I sat by his side,
and he floated away, guided by the light.