To a Pizza

By Stuart Lee

Fair fa’ yer honest sonsie pizza,
Ye look as if ye’ve been pit through a mincea!
Wi yer funny dough and olio that wud staw a sow,
Oh, how could ye Lord, dae that tae me now?

There’s nae trencher there sittin’ groanin’,
An’ ah’m left here a’ by mysel’ moanin’,
There’s nae mill tae mend that wud need ye,
An’ there’s no’ much o’ ye that wud feed me!

An’ ma knife though fu’ o’ Rustic-labour dight,
I cannae cut ye, though I try wi’ a’ ma might;
It’ll tak a special tool
And ah’m sittin’ here lookin’ a richt fool!

Ah cannae trench ye wi’ ready slight,
And there’s nae gushing entrails bright,
An’ wi’ nae warm reekin rich,
It’s in the bin, ah’ll need tae ditch.

The aroma is wan o’ toms and cheese,
Oh Lord, please dinnae tease,
Ah dinnae want fricassee, olio, or French ragout,
Ah jist want ma Haggis, right here and noo!

Nae prayers are needed, ah’ll jist wait aenither year,
An’ a’ ye doubters needna fear,
The trembling Earth will again hear the resounding tread,
An’ mark the Rustic, haggis fed!

NB – I wrote this following a Burns Night when for supper I had a pizza. Having been a member of a Burns Club and having recited, ‘To A Haggis’, and ‘Tam O’ Shanter’ at Burns Suppers in the past, having had a pizza on such a night must have played on my mind to make me write, ‘To A Pizza’.