Ode to the Haggis.

In bonnie Scotland, between the Bens and Glens.

Lie small towns, mostly cladded and wooden.

Where every night, men return with great haste.

To jab and stab, at their pale ghastly pudding.

In gangs and clans, they gather once a year.

To talk of Bannockburn and Culloden

They will raise a toast, to Robert Burns.

And that wee pallid ponging pudding.

The Whiskey will flow. Long into the night.

Sometimes things turn carnaptious and nasty.

But when the clocks strike twelve. They will all raise a glass.

To that inedible, timorous pasty.