My uncle liked golf and country,

Ballesteros and Johnny Cash.

 

He lived in a shit-kicking village,

spitefully distant from everyone.

 

Nothing impressed him.

Nothing. I mean it. Nothing.

 

Enthusiasm met him like

a lymph node meets cancer.

 

If Dolly Parton begged for eighteen holes

he'd tell her where to go.

 

Dis the lassie no ken, he'd say,

thit ah mak ma soup oan Mondays?

 

He'd be sure you knew, however,

that Dolly asked him out.