THE HAGGIS HUNT by Ian Thomson

Close by a big fire, our host fried ham and eggs
“Is that your Ayrshire bacon?” “Naw, heatin’ ma legs!”
We ate then we left the pub for the car park
Where our guide, half-wit Hamish loomed out of the dark
With his good wife, Mad Morag - no beauty (in truth
Some called her Juanita - she’d only one tooth).

We trudged up Glen Campbell, through wind and cold rain
Saw no sign of a haggis, so trudged down again.
Headed round to Ben Dover, where birds of prey fly
But the weather had won, there was just empty sky.
Hamish started a pop quiz “There’s the eagles” he’d bark
(or kestrel manoeuvres in the dark).

The hunt still dragged on to find haggis, the prize
Was to catch a bull haggis of incredible size.
This bull was a legend, oft heard, but not seen
But we found its fresh droppings, some blue and some green
Hamish screamed “This is bull's shit!” a cry from the heart
But I’m sure you already knew, right from the start!.