Much to his Mum and Dads dismay,

Horace ate himself one day.

He didnt stop to say his grace.

He just sat down and ate his face.

We cant have this, his dad declared.

If that lads ate, he should be shared!

But even as he spoke, they saw

Horace eating more and more.

First his legs and then his thighs;

His hair, his arms, his nose, his eyes.

Stop him, someone! Mother cried,

Those eyeballs would be better fried!

But all too late, for they were gone,

And he had started on his dong.

Oh foolish child, his father mourned,

We could have deep-fried that with prawns,

Some parsley, and some tartar sauce.

But H. was on his second course.

His liver and his lights and lung,

His ear, his neck, his chin, his tongue.

To think we raised him from the cot,

And now hes going to scoff the lot!

His mother cried, What shall we do?

Whats left wont even make a stew!

And as she wept, her son was seen

To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.

And there he lay, a boy no more,

Just a stomach on the floor.

Nonetheless, since it was his,

They ate it. Thats what haggis is.

Anon.