Blizzard

Far fey thur minds are e cowld winter snows,
E hills cled in white as e coorse north win blows,
No tree-igs till shelter e yows in e park,
Soon thur beeried ower heyd, disappeared 'thoot a mark.

An for uncanny traivaillers iss rodd can become
A hell-holl on earth as thur boadies grow numb,
Stuck in twinty-feet drifts e soft, smoor'in snow,
Becomes icy claws at refuse till let go.

How div they feel in this bleyched snow-drift prison?
Nearer till hell, or closer till heaven?
Thur world closin in till choost fower metal walls,
Loogs strainin for inklin o rescuers calls.

An how div they feel fan they ken thur's no chance?
Fan e frost howks at skin lek a weel-sharpened lance,
Are they feyrd as life bows oot wi last gasp o breyth?
Or choost sleep off seekin sweet respite in deyth?

Ids hard till imagine fowks died in iss way,
Fan e sun bathes e Ord on a warm summer's day,
E weather defies us, id canna be checked,
So defer till e elements, drive wi respect.