I woke up this mornin and I felt a bit weird and I jist didnae ken whit          tae say.Ken that I’m smart, bit I dae ken hou come. That’s hou I’m feelin          the day.Amnae airsed wae the writin, sae I’m writin my epitaph. Here lies the          corpus ae Álvaro C.He wissnae the like ae like Homer and that but his stuff’s jist fine: guid enough,          reader, fur thee.‘Here, Álvaro, whit’s aa this crack wae the rhymin, and hou come yir lines          are sae prolix?’My answer? Nae muckle, but I am a poet and I huv a pal and my pal’s          name is Alex.Sae here’s it the day: oor story begins whun I run intae Al bi the new          Queen Street Station.‘Fuck, Allybally man, whit’s crackalackin? I’ll write ye some bars fur yir          self isolation!’(And it’s true, as tho I huv written a few, it’s seldom I git a line          I cud puir hump—bit whun yir aye hoachin, alane wae yirself, sometimes a shiter’ll dae          fur a pump.)Sae Ally says ‘Ál, dinnae pit yirsel oot.’ And my wee hairt explodes          like a punched paper bag.Boom echas roon George Square. Pigeon’s heid bursts like a bairnie’s          balloon gittin papped wae a fag.Go tae gie him a hug, whun I reach oot he’s gan. I’m haudin the air.          Passerby double-takes.‘Yaright, mate? Waitin fur somewan or whit?’ And here’s the last rhyme—          fuck all sense it makes   dae ken – don’t know | hoachin – fidgety, nervous |