A Return, Of Sorts
Ther' ain't room fer th' third person, not in my sleepin' bag.
First person (singular or plural) is about all th' thing'll hold,
an' still keep us warm and moist, in the face o' bitter cold.
Th' answer ter yer askin' 'bout how or if I'm bent,
is somewhere in that pile o' crap, heaped outside th' tent.
Unsightly, unseemly, ungainly, no sense arguin' wi' th' fact,
You can stand out there, shiverin', or crawl in an' teach me tact
This is about as direct as Auld Bollocks rhyming gets. I'm guessing that the message is along the vein of: "Don't bother me with rules that I won't follow, and you can't afford to enforce". It's worth noting how the pleasantries of civilization aren't always the ornaments of real peoples' lives, and in some societies, are disdained as the senseless impositions of other people's wills.
Have a peaceful holiday, folks!