by The Egg Man » Tue Nov 05, 2013 11:45 pm
Erchie Cathcart by Adam McNaughtan.
Ah'll sing ye the story o' Erchie Cathcairt,
A fella that aye took guid care o' his hairt.
Ah don't mean in terms o' romance and its issues,
Naw, Erchie took care tae avoid fatty tissues.
He read books on Stress and he read books on Diet
An' made sure his hairt was weel-nourished an' quiet.
As soon as he fun' oot that fags wis a threat,
He said, "Erchie Cathcairt's smoked he's last cigarette."
An' no' jist himsel', he'd a smoke-free abode,
Fags were banned frae his flat in Victoria Road.
When his chain-smokin' pals said that that wis too hard ae 'im,
He juist said, "You look efter yer ain pericairdium!"
Oan Glesca's Sooth side the air disnae come near
The E.E.C.'s requirements for clean atmosphere
So whenever he ventured ootside his ain close
Cathcairt wore a mask ower his mooth and his nose.
'Cos joggin' wis good fur reducin' yer weight wi'
He'd jog everywhere, even ower tae the Gateway.
Where he bought low-fat mulk an' high-fiber breid
Yon loaf's that's a' covert wi' carraway seed.
An' fresh fruit an' veg an' then when he had peyed
He wid jog away hame wi' a bag oan each side.
When he read o' the Good-Hairted Glesca Campaign
He signed oan at wance wi' nae thochts o' delayin'
'Cos aboot his blood pressure he hadnae a qualm
And his weight matched his height tae the last milligram.
But his doctor, consultin' a chart oan the wall,
Says, "You're two points too high on your cholesterol.
But there's no need to worry, just cut out dessert."
"Ah never eat pudding!" cried Erchie Cathcairt.
He jogged away hame in the depths o' despair,
Efter ten years o' mooslie, whit could he dae mair.
Then he read in the papers, some scientists say,
"Yer hairt can be helped wi' two aspirins a day."
And the very next mornin' the Herald declare't
"Drinkin' wine wi' yer meal must be good fur yer hairt."
"Eureka!" cried Erchie, "the method tae beat 'em all -
A wee gless o' Eldo an' two paracetamol."
But he thought, since his hale life he'd aye been teetotal,
Wan gless widnae dae, so he drank the hale boatle.
Then oan wi' his Reebocks, doonstairs he did flee
Right in front o' a bus, number 44B,
It knocked him six meters, a terrible sight,
But the autopsy showed his cholesterol was right.
It wis some consolation tae his faimly physician
That he died wi' his hairt in a perfect condition.
They say that small troubles are sent here tae try ye,
They tell ye, "Whit's fur ye wull never go by ye."
If yer name's oan the bullet, ye wullnae be spare't,
He wis hut by a bus that wis bound for Cathcairt.
I hear the people sing.