Tae the glowrin’ ghoulies intent on filching the private letters of poets efter they are deid With apologies to Rabbie Burns – and none whatsoever to his critics Ye critics, wha daur weet yer whistle Dabbling in my ilk epistle, Gruching not the private gristle In your searches – It does naething tae gar my fissle, Ye leering Lurches! Nae matter that the poet’s deid, His life’s his ain, when’s done and said – Ye cannae a’ gae aff your heid At a’ his scribblies, Wee mousies, filching crumbs o’ breid Awa’ for nibblies. I’ll ain it maks life mair…