From the dusty basement of the Rue St. Denis Asylum up to the satellite dish on the roof, Cable Paris occasionally sneaks down and broadcasts his revolutionary messages to humanity on his self made radio transmitter. Think Twice Radio has intercepted and recorded one of his messages.


It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
And this is Cable Paris, once again, making a transmission
Through the satellite dish of the old asylum
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
And I might be the only Scotsman
In the neighborhood of scars
I walk into an old Polish bar
Filled with old Polish men
With my dram and with my Haggis
And I tell them, no, I am not a stranger
I am hear to celebrate Robbie Burns
A friend of the common man
Scotland’s favourite son
You know, the bard of Ayrshire
They have never heard of Robbie Burns
But they have certainly heard
Of the common man
And so we drink a strange brew for many hours
Made from a red red rose at Lucky’s Diner
Made from a drunken man looking at a thistle
Made from a drunken man looking at Clinton Street
When I come to the Haggis itself
I thought they might be disgusted
With its intenstines of a Gurnsey cow

But instead they embraced the Haggis
Saying it was something they could indeed injest
After centuries of Polish sausages was their only
Meat under Joseph Stalin
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
I go outside and light a cigarette and watch
As a sad meteor descends from the sky
On its tired way to the Isle of Mull
Where young men will done their kilts
Just to show off their legs to the ladies
And I will be dressed in a Harris Tweed jacket
From the Salvation Army on Military Road
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
And I feel the Polish girls come out to dance
They are dressed in a youthful Catholicism
That makes me kind of shy
Until the Home of the Future takes me in
To borrow their satellite dishes
So the wind can uplift their skirts to reveal
The beauty of the French Revolution
As Robbie Burns wrote about it
In a mull draped in blood and oats
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
Lay down your brewskis and come with me
I will not you let you down
For I have been down so often
Oppressed by the English
Who made my tartan a federal offence
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
And all the good democrats come out to dance
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
A sword dance made to dazzle the stars of the gutters
We have thrown up in so many times
By the shards and parking lots of HSBC Bank
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
O ploughman’s poet, lay down your plough and see what you have wrote on my back
O Rodben of Solway Firth, I am sipping from
My last drop of Lagavullin for you
The whisky is the proud Gaelic
For the water of life
That comes down as a river for Aryshire
And collects one by one
The buning ears of Tom O’Shanter
It’s Burns Day in Kaisertown
And even Saint Casimir himself
Seems impressed upon his white horse

return to list of all poems