A Manifesto Against Being Thought French, or Hollandaise Sauce
I am the Scottish president,
A man of moral compass,
I am not foreign. In my sporran
There’s no private rumpus.
Now I am independent,
Have ditched the Union Jack,
My upper lip is still top-tip.
I fear no moral flak.
And yes I’ve heard of Francois,
Who makes me lose no snoozes.
The Royal Mile’s restrained in style.
We don’t go in for floozies.
The Scottish revolution
Will turn a perfect circle –
No rattling sabre, well-tossed caber –
We look to Mrs. Merkel.
We gaze across at Europe,
And skirl and highland-dance,
We’re all bare knees, but, if you please,
We’re not at all like France.
No mistress in Midlothian,
No lover in Tiree,
No private man at Prestonpans –
We’re pure in loch and quay.
We are not like the English,
Still less the shameless French:
Beneath the kilt, we are well-built
But know which parts to clench.
So when you cross our border,
We hope you’ll have examined
The great and good at Holyrood.
Sincerely, Alex Salmond.