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Residing in Scotland, Sam Gilliland is a champion of Lallans (the Scottish language) poetry and a recipient of Sangschaw’s prestigious MacDiarmid Tassie. Whaur a hende-hoofer’s staur bleizes brichtly. Noo A jeeg oan that sea-jauped jet, nichtly,
#THE LAST CURTAIN CALL SONG MOVIE#
Movie mogul’s dichtit oot a duanser’s dreme. The duin deal, flauchterin pantheon’s draw Nevir yince mairched furth as a spunkie staur,ĭaunced daft i’ smash-hit sangschaws, dusk tae daw,Ī green’d for a tap touper’s self-esteem, He sayd, ‘Yased tae trauchle oan Braodwey stage,įluisterin for the big brek, the gryte agent, He bous, lats the swaws doolie-daunce glower. Gars raindraps glent in Titan’s efterglow, Gie a heize tae magic, misty nymphs cour,ĭainty fuit tappin, frae siccan droukit loun, Saut chemic splairges heich, skinklin wi silt,Ĭagney draps tae yae knee, airms oot wide,Ĭlaschit huuns gang quate neth that surfin soun,Ĭreamy bosom’d swaws, eikit tae the schaw, He prinks tae pier’s en, an prigs at the sea.ĭaylicht. James jigs oan, lihtent bi Titan’s chawed ee,ĭremes dangit doon dant no this jackanapes,Īe gey skeich reel rypes scenes frae Brig O Doon, Spunedrift breist’s the backhaud, his shouther capes Stouries daur the day havy watter’s near, Therefrae tae a sauf berth, bot thare, dauncin Thay ward-fires airt dredgers tae beildy waa’s Wurds girn ma gams, blashes A maun borrow,įause-daw, Titan, yit tae steir an craw crouse,Ĭuittles links braisit bi babbin green swaws,īlythe teirs fleit, for A maun greit the morrow,Ī glisk lichthoose lemes winkin, an jalouse Now I strut on that sea-girt stage, nightly,Īnd a has-been hoofer’s star beams brightly.’
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Gaunt film directors ditched a dancer’s dream. Lithe, silver-screen paramours partnered me Kelly, Astaire, Cagney, were all the rage ĭanced in smash-hit musicals, dusk till dawn, Hustling for the big break, the best agent, He said, ‘Used to be on a Broadway stage, He bows, lets the sea’s endless dance resume. Light applause is lost in that surfing sound Ĭagney drops to one knee, arms held wide,Ĭreamy bosomed wave-tops add to the show,ĭainty curtseys, adorned by stunning spume, Salt-chemic spatters high, gleaming with silt, Neptune and Nereid waltz with easy grace, James dances on, bathed in a blue spotlight,ĭreams thus drenched, deters not yon jackanapes,Ī lively reel robs scenes from Brig O’ Doon. Spray breast’s the barricade, his shoulder-capesĪre silvered by bright sequins, wetly strewn, Like James Cagney, a lone figure performs,Īlong the quay, spins around, and grins. They are beacons guiding boats to the pier,įrom thence to a safe berth, but there, dancing I watch lighthouse lights blink and realise Joy’s tears form, for I may weep tomorrow, Words shape my lips, words that I shall borrow,