single malt blends,
pretenses of culture
engraved deep into crystal
tumblers and silver salvers.
They brayed their way
through alien brogues
muddled through the Selkirk Grace
pretended to be disappointed
when they had no Haggis.
They let their minds wander,
chasing exploits of ancient warriors,
lifting skirts of lowland lasses,
replaying holes on the old course,
dreaming of old days, red roses, crowns.
When it’s time for auld lang syne,
they dream of brotherhood,
tip bottles to honor old times,
only to find their voices teetering
alone in a haze of scotch and smoke.
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