There’s a chimney out my window, on a roof across the street
It pokes through tiles of blackened slate, so shiny bright and neat
It’s frightened, lost and useless like a hun attending Mass
Or a diet sheet in a kitchen drawer that’s owned by Mamma Cass.
Remember spinning grannies, birlin round in gales
Remember toasting pieces, and nightly ghostly tales
Remember getting nit combed, our hair dried by its heat
Remember bitter winters as we toasted hands and feet.
Now all that’s left is me to stare and him to sit forlorn
All sense of usefulness now been from our wee sad lives shorn
Just him and me each morning greet each other at the dawn,
And then goodnight, as blinds are closed, another day is gone.
But one day we’ll be needed , when the world runs out of oil
When me with blackened features mine deep in Scotland’s soil
And 6 a.m means paper, sticks and brasso’ed coal being lit,
Then sparks and smoke shoot up the flue as round the fire we’ll sit.