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Nicola Furrie Murphy was brought up a stone's throw away from Nan Shepherd's home in Cults, Aberdeen and lives in the coastal town of Stonehaven. She writes prose and poetry, an tries her han wi a smatterin o Scots. Her work has appeared in Poets’ Republic, Pushing out the Boat, Poetry Scotland, and on BBC Scotland. She is a member of Mearns Writers and along with fellow members, is compiling a Doric pamphlet, Mair Northren Nummers.
A dug, a lead,
his bird n her kerb
Nicola Furrie Murphy
(After Françoise Villon’s Le Petit Testament, 1456)
To the Rt Hon Andrew Bowie, I bequeath
my kohl eyeliner to draw a Smokey and the Bandit
royal blue line, unner yer een, lik ‘Waity Katie’.
Wait on faur yon coveted Cabinet position, even tho
we’ve lang since drained Coffey dregs, still unner
Secretary poodle, bow wow.
To the aforementioned Mr Bowie, dept o Net Zero,
I also bequeath my wetsuit and snorkel so ye can
heid doon Sooth faur ye voted tae swim gawpit thro raw
sewage. A far cry fae Royal Deeside faur salmon loup
upstream; doonstream fowk ploiter thro shit that aye
floats tae the tap. Nae free lunch, nivermin a dook.
To yer bird, lead on Liz Lettuce, I bequeath ma
moonstone necklace so we nivver hae tae unsee
yon signature submission circle agin. Wi a name like Truss,
the joke’s on us, hidin in plain sight, a power Hunger moon,
fa cratered the economy, bringin us tae oor knees.
Nae Antoinette, hae Cakegate n eat it – neeps.
I bequeath my Bowie albums tae ony Rebel Rebel
oot there fa clamours faur Ch Ch Changes.
Yon hunky dory days o Bowie /Bowie ambiguity when
birds n blokes flocked thegither in alien fluidity afore
Tap o the Pops wiz canned makkin us aa spare
Harry Styles n Chateau tone d’F.
I bequeath my box set o Curb Your Enthusiasm
to onywan fa can stomach mockumentaries o
Tory twits n a black-mirrored non-dom panopticon.
I bequeath my cordless drill and crowbar tae onywan
Snaw White enough, fa hasnae shat their ain nest,
tae hae a crack at yon glass ceilin n Saor.
