The Gellick bides in the toonlan o Ballygellick, an ootby an auld farrant kin o place, whaur til noo, he has bided his time spraughlin in clart an maggin in glaur. Hooinever, The Gellick is fair scunnered wi a wheen o things aboot the modren warld, an being a thrawn an crabbit body, he decided tae speak oot. The yin thing abin aa others that The Gellick cannae thole is this: for aa the blethers in the warld, there are unco few in the auld hauf deid leid o Ulster Scotch. This maks The Gellick want tae baith gurn an gulder oot!
Sae bewaur The Gellick, an aye hae mind that he is a gellick. Caa him an "earwig" an you micht wauken yin micht tae fin him wi his neb in your lug:
Doon your lug hole I'll come dashin,
Borin, burrowing, batterin, bashin,
Hokin, wigglin, garravashin,
Until your heid,
An lae you sneezin, pechin, fashion,
Wi oot remead.
Like an ammonite concealed in stane,
I'll curl richt up an bide my lane,
Atween your gullet an your brain,
An hibernate,
An there I'll bide until your pain,
Micht dissipate.
Like an arraheid ablow the glaur,
Or a peat-choked body buried far
Ablow the yird, I've unco pooer,
Like artefact or relic,
An whan I twitch sic wurds I'll gar,
Boke fae your bake as "Gellick"!
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