Sentence The Threehundredandfortysecond

“Is disparadise?” asked the Hibee,
Of a Jam Tart wha sat on his knee,
“Naw, it's jist a morass,”
Said the soft hearted lass,
As she dunked a pangram in her tea;

“Ma maw wis a cauld-herted bitch,
But she tocht me never tae snitch,
An ah'll tell ye nae lie,
Yer a fine lukin guy,”
and she thocht tae hersel, “he looks rich!”
When St Patrick's Day turns into nicht,
And the Hibs and the Hearts start to ficht,
They walked arm linked with arm,
And they came to no harm,
'Twas an ecumienical sicht!

They went doon a lane off the Cowgate,
Though she'd been well warned o that fate,
They Plighted their Troth,
And it blighted them both,
Noo they've got five wee weans under eight!

The Hibee that merrit the Jam Tart,
Wis shunned by the Prods as an upstart.
And the Fenians tae,
Sent the hale brood away,
So they piled aw their stuff oan a cart!
Easter Road wouldnae gie them admittance,
Tynecastle kept baith at a distance,
Religion had shunned 'em,
But Politics fund 'em,

And while he's an MP at Westminster and she's an MSP at Holyrood and their future looks rosy they baith miss the footy on a Setterday but prefer to watch it in safety and comfort on Sky Sports and as far as they're concerned – swappin' insults on the Terraces? Guid Riddance!