In a house near a hoose on a bright Glasgow day,
A reporter popped up with a question to say:

“Did your spouse do the thing with the funds in the can?”
And she blinked and replied,
“I don’t recall being married to that man.”

She checked in the cupboards, she checked in her shoe,
She checked in a teacup of lukewarm Irn‑Bru.
She checked in a notebook marked Plans I Once Knew,
But no husband appeared in her memory queue.

“Oh dear,” she exclaimed, “what a puzzling span,
For I simply can’t place this mysterious man.
Was he tall? Was he small? Did he like marzipan?
Did he hum when he walked? Did he drive a wee van?”

The reporters all scribbled, the cameras all whirred,
As she shrugged with a smile that seemed slightly absurd.
“For the life o’ me, folks, I’ve no clue, understand,
I don’t recall ever marrying that man.”

And off then she toddled, as calm as could be,
Past the press, past the fuss, past the BBC.
For in Scotland, you see, when a scandal began,
You could simply forget you were wed to the man.