Burns night it is here in Ageng, SW France, to the universal indifference of the Gascon philistinery. I'm the sole member of the Rabbie Burns Appreciation Society round here too. My only gesture to the great man'll have to be an entry in yer competition. I might hum 'Parcel o'Rogues' to meself a little later. Sadly, my entry is in pidgin Groundskeeper Willy Scots/Dublinese - I hope it'll even qualify - probably not. Anyhow, here goes:

Tae a postie

Sin' the days o' the Penny Black,
They've had ye toil beneath a sack,
An' i' th'end they lave yer back,
Aw snapped in twa!
Sae noo ye pass i' ruin an' rack,
Retirement awa'.

But ne'er in aw o Jock Tati,
Or yon filthy bukes be Bukowski,
Wha drank like a loyal, true postie,
Were such attacks!
Tae be conceived, ay, dreadfully
Yon foul anthrax!

Noo posties lie as yon puir wee beastie,
O' tha bleak Isle, an ooter Hebride,
Whar the Sassanachs, roond Nineteen-Forty,
Done queer English things.
An' 'Return tae Sender', aw melancholy,
Oor postie sings.

Best ah can do - sláinte!