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or
an ode for  the politically incorrect

I love those tartan plaids
but sometimes I think that people
who wear kilts take themselves
(and their kilts) too seriously.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Scots,
their fashion, their strong backbones,
everything but haggis
which we shall dismiss
from this conversation.

There is no intent to be sarcastic,
it’s just that the Scottish seem so permanent
and then there are the French, They
are rooted in more temporary things.

Perhaps vagueness is the key to longevity,
A certain ambiguity has been known
to make a whole room feel guilty,
each one
assimilating blame.

France gave us Nostradamus.
He prognosticated so mysteriously
that each century hails his name
in its history,

There are also some who smile
and say quite quietly that his predictions,
like his poetry , border on the elementary
and really do not stand
too close a scrutiny.

Better he were a piece of winter ice
drifting  in a graceful dance from heaven
Who ever questioned a snowflake…
its form or its sincerity?

But poor Prince Charles dons his clannish kilt
and immediately there is an uproar
about his sense of fashion,
about his knees,
about British royalty.

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