Here, being red is unique,

in crowds of blue and green.

Often discarded or hidden away,

but sometimes magnificent;

when it really matters.

I can taste it now,

between crusty steak,

bratwurst mitt pretzels,

with lashings of durken

and oodles of pride.

My senses fill at the thought of you,

on cold winters nights.

Sweaty class oozes over fields,

as we’re red, your dead; we’re dancing on your head,

we’re Aberdeen; where it counts

to have two silver stars over your badge.

Being red is what I live by

and I will feel the rush of it

wherever I go; see the seagulls swooping,

smell the ozone new and hear

the loons who never give up hope;

standing free wherever they may be.

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