Great steaming lump of sausage meat
It’s you we’ve all come here to eat;
Your oats and pepper, something sweet—
   What is that smell?
Perhaps a hint of runner’s feet?
   I cannot tell.

The neeps and tatties on the plate
Are our two veg, it is their fate.
But you’re the course for which we wait—
   We’re all agog
As on a nervous lover’s date
   With lots of grog!

Mister MacSween has done his best;
We went to Waitrose for the rest:
No need for a genetic test
   Of any course:
No GMO or turkey breast
   Or Tesco horse.

Forget your sorrows and your woe
And let the amber liquids flow:
There really is no need to know
   What the bag is.
I’ll end it now, my tell and show:
   Eat the haggis!