Grey over Riddrie the clouds piled up

dragged their rain through the cemetery trees

The gates shone cold. Wind rose �aring the hissing leaves,

dragged their rain through the cemetery trees

the branches swung heavy, across the lamps

Gravestones huddled in drizzling shadow,

�ickering streetlight scanned the requiescats,

a name and an urn,

What is this dripping wreath, blown �om its grave red, white, blue and gold

‘To Our Leader of Thir� Years Ago’

a date,

a dove picked out, lost, half regained.

Bareheaded, in dark suits, with �utes and drums,

they brought him here, in procession seriously,

King Billy of Brigton, dead, �om Bridgeton Cross:

A memory of violence, brooding days of emp� bellies,

billiard smoke and a sour pint,

boots or �sts, famous sherrickings,

the word, the scu�e,

the �ash,

bricks for papish windows, get the Conks next �me,

the Conks ambush the Billy Boys, the Billy Boys the Conks

�ll Sillitoe scu�s the razor down the stank-

the shout,

the shout, bloody crumpling in the close,

No, but it isn’t the violence the remember

but the legend of a violent man born poor,

gang-leader in the bad �mes of idleness and boredom,

lost in better days,

a quiet man at last,

So a thousand people stopped tra�c

a bouncer in a bet�ng club,

dying alone in Bridgeton in a box bed.

for the hearse of a folk hero

and the �utes threw ‘Onward Chris�an Soldier’ to the winds

�om unironic lips, the mourners kept in step,

and there were some who wept.

Go �om the grave.

Deplore what is to be deplored,

The shrill �utes are silent,

the march dispersed.

and the �nd out the rest.