Burns Night

I want to raise a toast, get whisky in your hand

For tonight we celebrate Burns, and drink throughout the land

For Robbie Burns’ a poet, and fires ya Scottish blood

And if it’s weak, don’t worry, eat haggis, ’cause it’s good


It’s made from moulding stomach, ripped whole, from bleating sheep

And it’s only bleeding tourists, who tremble and then weep

For the haggis making process is not fit for sassenachs

Who haven’t got the stomach to hold their puddings back


And yet they’ve got to eat it, for they can’t offend yon Scots

Who love to live in old crofts, keep sheep, and shag a lot

It is said in Scottish legend that the women are rampant flirts

Which is why, to save on time, the men also wear skirts


So get ye to the bottle, your groaning trencher there ye fill

And down some more good whisky, ’cause you’re surely feeling ill

From stuffing all that haggis whilst feasting with your friends

And remember that you’re Scottish, God’s chosen, and love Burns




Copyright © 2014 Jhedron Luckspar