A little-known fact about myself (ie. no-one actually gives a monkey's) is that in 2008 I was one of the runners-up in Fish Publishing's now-defunct micro-fiction competition. I only offer that in mitigation, because as you're about to discover I am, always have been, and always will be indescribably rubbish at poetry. Bizarrely, I once contrived to get a "poem" I had "written" read out on TV by a curling commentator, and the rather humiliating assessment of Scotland's former world champion skip David Smith was "Burns will be turning in his grave". But it's not my bloody fault, is it? How are you supposed to say anything interesting and non-childish when you have to stop every five seconds to find a word that rhymes? And as for getting everything to fit into trochaic tetrameter or whatever...do me a favour.
But in the true spirit of Anas Sarwar, I have absolutely no intention of quitting while I'm behind. What you're about to read was inspired by Kate Higgins' suggestion that tonight feels a bit like the night before Christmas. (Having an American mum, we really do have the annual tradition of reading out The Night Before Christmas every Christmas Eve.)
'Twas the night before #indyplan
And all through Middle Eng-land
No-one in Labour was electable
And certainly not Miliband.
Yes, that's why we Scots
Must move forward in hope
For no-one else can save us
Not even the Pope.