by ratty



Intae the wids amongst the trees.
Tam bared his erse, his cheeks to ease.
Nae sinner hud his breeks gan doon.
Than shitty flees were swarming roon.

Intae the wind he bared his baws
and from his erse a big keech faws.
The reek it curled amongst the trees.
‘twis enough tae make the birdies sneeze.
An’ a’ the bees on bended knees,
Got sick a fricht o’ Tams big erse.

Big Tam wis in awfy pain.
It came oot his erse like a nine pund wean.
Thur wis a tear faw fi’ his eee
For a bigger shit you’d never see.

Big Tams erse wis raw an sair.
Says big Tam I’ll shite nae mair.
Yonder it lay amongst the grit.
A dirty stinkin’ muckle shit.

Yonder it lay si saft, si fresh.
Nae een, nae teeth, nae bains, nae flesh.
I swear it never drew a breath.
Tams Muckle Turd.


4 Comments to “TAM’S MUCKLE TURD”

  1. continuing Ratty’s scatological theme , , ,

    Address tae a Fart

    Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie
    Lurks in your belly efter the feastie
    Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
    There sterts to stir an enormous wind
    The neeps and tatties and mushy peas
    Stert workin like a gentle breeze
    But soon the puddin wi the sauncie face
    Will have ye blawin all ower the place

    Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
    A’body’s gonnae hiv tae pay
    Even if ye try tae stifle
    It’s like a bullet oot a rifle
    Hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
    Tae try and stop the leakin air
    Shifty yersel fae cheek tae cheek
    Prae tae God it doesnae reek

    But aw yer efforts go assunder
    Oot it comes like a clap o thunder
    Ricochets aroon the room
    Michty me a sonic boom
    God almighty it fairly reeks
    Hope I huvnae shit my breeks
    Tae the bog I better scurry
    Aw whit the hell it’s no ma worry

    A’body roon aboot me chokin
    Wan or two are nearly bokin
    I’ll feel better for a while
    Cannae help but raise a smile
    Wiz him! I shout with accusin glower
    Alas too late, he’s just keeled ower
    Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
    A dinnae feel welcome any mair

    Where e’ere ye go let yer wind gan’ free
    Sounds like just the job fur me
    Whit a fuss at rabbie’s party
    Ower the sake o one wee fartie


  2. Ah! Rabbi Burns.

    Famed throughout Blackley for his Bar Mitzvah poems.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. An’, anither . . .


    By Robert Burns

    Puir wee saft an’ flabby penis,
    A wheen o’ pleasure you hae gien us.
    An hour or twa ago, puir thing,
    Ye made a lassie’s gled hert sing,
    For then ye stuck oot firm and prood
    An’ put Jean Armour in the mood.

    She doted on the love ye geid,
    An’ lost wi’ glee her maidenheid.
    Her comely thighs, her erse sae braw
    Did answer mother nature’s ca’.
    She squirmit like a trimlin’ jelly,
    As ye went scuddin’ up her belly.

    Fu’ prood she wis o’ hard worked penis:
    an’ hoo ye jerked sae weel between us;
    She lay there, gigglin’ wi’ pleasure;
    Lie doon, and rest – ye’ve earned yer leisure.
    For Ye geid yer a’ tae satisfy
    The urgent need o’ Jean and I.

    Still ye did a guid night’s work;
    Ye did yer duty, didnae shirk.
    Noo, wee thing ye look sae sad,
    You’re just nae use tae Rabbie lad.
    Ye’re wabbit oot, an’ saft as butter –
    But hoo ye made Jean Armour splutter.
    An’ as I slowly puff my pipe
    Ye look just like some wrinkled tripe.

    Noo ma Bonnie Jean’s gang hame
    Tae hing her heid in sorry shame.
    Ye ken gie weel ye did her wrang –
    I kept ye in her far too lang,
    An’ noo we’ll hae tae wait an’ see
    If Jean will hae a pregnancy.

    Oh weel, we a’ men, we tak oor chances,
    Let’s saunter doon tae Poosie Nansy’s,
    An’ when I’ve had a dram or twa
    I’ll let ye piss agin’ the wa’.
    Maybe ye’ll pardon my abuses
    I realise ye’ve ither uses.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I must say, I was disappointed to find that ‘Cock Up Your Beaver’ didn’t live up to the title.


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