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.
You bellied-beast,
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
        Temptation.
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.

Some resist.
A smile, a microwave, a menu,
            Nothing genuine,
Not a word of truth amongst them.
Sauces thinly/sick.
To be this famous -
As slick and slick -
They go by the name
        Of the Cognoscente.

Contrast -
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.

Transmitter on/Receive:
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?
   Time to eat and say your prayers.