Buckie

Eighteen year's old and on the dole,

Standin' at the corner o' the street.

Bottle o' Buckie in a broon paper bag, this

Their fortnightly treat.

Bottled in South Devon's rolling hills,

Now one of Scotland's social ills.

Fourteen year olds' taking swigs in

Secret places.

Sitting on park benches, glassed looks in

Their eyes, smiles on their faces.

Naw they're no dreamin' their

Community Centre's shut at night.

So they just go oot an' get steamin'.

Buckfast, Buckfast, gets ye oot yur face,

Ye see they drink it, because they like the taste.

Buckfast, Buckfast, gets ye oot yur face.

Broken dreams like broken bottles,

Littered awe aboot the place.

Jas G.