[Jerome Betts]

My love is like . . . not Robbie Burns,
That randy rhyming sot,
Though Edinburgh’s where he earns
His massive pension pot.

No ex-Sir Fred, he scents a deal,
But dodges duff Dutch banks,
And Murdoch’s muck-sheets can’t reveal
Bent friends, or drug-fuelled pranks.

Our partnership, rock-solid, rich,
Its bonds by no means junk,
Outshines the RBS, in which
Our taxes have been sunk.

O Caledonia, viewed with bile
For gambling with our pound,
At least along the Royal Mile
One union’s yet sound!