The Scottish Ode
Baron Luxon squelches through the marshes
On the approaches to Dun Edin,
Dingy socialist hellhole of the Caledonians
With their tartan woad and thrifty ways.
“Wait here,” The Baron instructs his Communications Minders,
Tying up his battle horse Titanic. “This is going to be quick.”
The Baron strides into the mean tea rooms.
Michael, Laird of the Outhouse, rushes to greet him.
“Welcome, O Leader,” he enthuses.
“It has been many a long year since we have welcomed
A Baron of the House of Blue to our humble wee croft!”
“Yes, there’s a reason for that,” notes The Baron,
Ordering the house special of a recycled tea bag in warm water.
“We need to talk,” says The Baron.
“About my new Cabinet role?” asks Laird Michael eagerly,
A gleam of anticipation forming in his eyes.
“I was thinking after my years and years
Of long service dedicated to Your Noble Cause,
My great loyalty might be recognised finally.”
“No, not about that,” demurs The Baron.
“Hmmm,” says Michael, not yet disheartened.
“Am I in the top five of your List of Honour?”
“Not exactly,” equivocates the Baron.
“Top ten?,” presses Michael.
“Numero 119 to be precise,” replies the Baron,
Looking away into the distance for a few long seconds.
Michael stares into his thin and no longer warm tea.
“But why?” Demands Michael.
“Am I a victim of the identity politics and woke plottings
Of the Great Elites of King’s Landing?
Is it because I’m white … male … middle aged … rich …”
“Not at all,” says the Baron. “Those are all big positives in my world.”
“Is it because I’m from miserable old Dunners?”
Laird Michael whispers with a tremble in his voice.
“Look, I’ve got to be on my way,” says The Baron,
brusquely rising to his feet. “But I have got a retirement present.”
“Is a gold watch?” Asks Laird Michael hopefully.
“No,” says the Baron, who reaches into a brown paper bag,
And hands The Laird of the Outhouse a gift wrapped toilet seat.