By Exile


Now Jimmy Smith, a local baker, was a kindly man wae’ purple cheeks,

The smell o’ bread an’ cakes an’ pastry escaped his bakehouse in Charlotte Street,

This genial baker o’ some repute, was epitomised by his size,

His obvious rotundity,( bordering obesity),  a consequence of his mutton pies,


His sense o’ equilibrium, when you’d see him with a wooden tray,

Balanced perfectly upon his head as he walked with nonchalance, down the brae,

His Paris buns, jam doughnuts, fleas cemeteries and chocolate éclairs,

Sausage rolls and angel cakes were a’ transported wae consummate care,


His labour force of Auld Tot Smith and Andy Mitchell frae Murray Place,

Ensured supplies, (though missing pies were regularly lost without a trace),

In competition wae Baker Cameron, Jimmy worked frae dusk ‘til dawn,

But as brothers they’d meet at 1262 when they put their other aprons on.


Copyright Calling Publishing 2005