You flash thing,
You master of the cooking bling.
God, you’d be good in bed – arms, legs, skin,
Even the words unsaid. Good luck then.
Top pudding, number one, legless fun.
Sometimes what’s best is least.
Who claimed you’re good Monsieur Haggis,
‘The Special One’?
What with the knife, Shorty?
That cuts what looks like muck.
Until a light – you realise what luck,
Gold amidst the tripe.
The oozing ‘insides’ rich, as thick as thick.
How about it?
And what’s the deal when you eat this meal?
A burning sensation,
The starving air, starved itself until the pricking:
Fire with energy/
Gloriously rich like all
A gasp, perhaps a whiff of danger
From that gangster pudding.
His face honest but thin – deadly beast.
A form of midnight porridge,
More fun but rougher on the lips.
A smile, a microwave, a menu,
Not a word of truth amongst them.
To be this famous –
As slick and slick –
They go by the name
Of the Cognoscente.
Hair plumméd, shoulders set,
Ready to extend a hand of friendship –
The Immortal Memory.
Flame-throwing son of Caledonia –
Making vegetable into nips,
His words as succulent as chips.
The stomach ready, greedy for the saucy bits.
The power of universal union.
Tune into ‘Radio Pudding’ –
The hairy guy, silent sometimes,
Can baffle a bit.
You can’t hurry love
And you can’t hurry a haggis.
So now do you fancy me?
And can a night be spent together
Learning the meaning of all eternity?
Now eat and say your prayers.