photo from hargo
I'm a day late. Apparently the rest of the world takes Burn's day more seriously than we do here in Scotland. The haggis is sitting in the fridge forlorn and forgotten.
Continuing an occasional series of re-worked poems, here's my skewed and smutty version of Burns' Ode to a Haggis. Rab was a joyful carouser in his day, and I think he might approve. Plus, maybe I'm reading this with blue-tinted glasses, but some of it sounds filthy just as it is.
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the sex-toy race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
The dildo or five finger jam,
Weel are ye wordy of a grace worthy
As lang’s my arm.
The groaning trench there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them oot their thrills so fair,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking tease
That fails tae please
But if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a rabbit!
Sonsie - cheerful
Hurdies - buttocks
Pin - skewer
skinking - watery