A Highland Fling

 Through the mist and the rain
In mountainous terrain
A lone Scotsman stood
His ire and rage now subdued
On a heather clad hill
All could hear the shrill
On his pipes he played a sad lament
A tune of glory and discontent
In his kilt and sporran
Wearing nothing foreign
He was dressed to impress
Everything neatly pressed
Aftershave, manly perfumed
Hair neat and tidy, looking well groomed
No more need to roam
He made his way home
For his last supper he chose porridge
And a double malt for Dutch courage
He’d show them, he still knew how to swing
Performing an ultimate highland fling
His body contorting with violent affray
His final act, to kick the chair away