Oh Raise An Eye To The Glasgow Sky, Curse It's Name And Ask It Why? The Snow Should Seem To Hang So Late And Close All Lanes On The Old M8. And Damn All Icy Paves And Roads That Stop Us Reaching Our Abodes, From Nights On The Drink And Nights On The Town When All The Crettins Wander Down, To Georges Square To Use Their Phone To Call A Taxi And Whinge And Moan About How They Can't Get Back To Their Home. And The Glasgow Roads Do Cause A Fuss By Delaying The Time Of The Nineteen Bus. As I Walk Past The Old 'Ens Blue And Sour They Can Stare All They Like, For I'll Be Home In A Quarter Hour.