Or dost thou mak’ a thistle o’ me, wumman? But for thee
I were as happy as the munelicht, withoot care,
But thocht o’ thee—o’ thy contempt and ire—
Turns hauf the warld into the youky thistle there,

Feedin’ on the munelicht and transformin’ it
To this wanrestfu’ growth that winna let me be.
The munelicht is the freedom that I’d ha’e
But for this cursèd Conscience thou hast set in me.

It is morality, the knowledge o’ Guid and Ill,
Fear, shame, pity, like a will and wilyart growth,
That kills a’ else wi’in its reach and craves
Nae less at last than a’ the warld to gi’e it scouth.

The need to wark, the need to think, the need to be,
And a’ thing that twists Life into a certain shape
And interferes wi’ perfect liberty—
These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape.

For ilka thing a man can be or think or dae
Aye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,
Till his puir warped performance is,
To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.

It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,
Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God.
He yet has bigged himsel’, Man torn in twa
And glorious in the lift and grisly on the sod!…

There’s nocht sae sober as a man blin’ drunk.
I maun ha’e got an unco bellyfu’
To jaw like this—and yet what I am sayin’
Is a’ the apter, aiblins, to be true.

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle