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
