[John Whitworth]

No. 2832: Burns night address

As Burns Night approaches, you are invited to compose an address to an item of food. It is up to you whether or not you write in the style of Robert Burns but poems should be a maximum of 16 lines. Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 22 January.

[John Whitworth]

Edgar Allen Poe's Address to a Haggis

Sausage in a stomach bag is what a Scotsman calls a haggis,
Soused and seethed to make him hale and hairy, louche and lickerish.
We who follow old instruction, kitchen-tested to destruction,
Now behold you, haggis in a bag, a Scottish hero's wish,
Spicy sausage so nutritious, a Hibernian hero's wish,
Swelling steaming on a dish,
Democratic, aromatic, lying lordly on a dish,
Unbelievably delish!

When the butcher has delivered of a sheep, heart, lungs and liver,
When the cook has added onion, oatmeal, suet, salt and spice,
Then she boils you in a copper for as long as she thinks proper,
Yes, she boils you, sacred sausage, for as long as will suffice.
Boils with turnips and potatoes for as long as will suffice,
For a gourmet paradise,
For a glory gustatory and a gourmet paradise,
You are naughty but so nice!

[Jim Hayes]

Shelley’s Toast to a Black Pudding

A toast to you Black Pudding.
dearest to my heart -
which in my breast is thudding
as I’m about to start
to savour you, my pinnacle of the culinary art.

Blacker still and blacker,
wrapped in pig entrail,
I love you in a snack or
served by British Rail
or in a trendy restaurant to garnish lobster tail.

Of bladder, blood and grain;
in just a little drizzle
of frying fat you’re lain
As I enjoy the sizzle
prior to serving on my plate a melange of gut and gristle

[Susan McLean]

Scarlett O’Hara Addresses a Turnip

Before I will eat
a raw turnip or beet,
I’ll cheat and I’ll kill and I’ll flirt.
I can’t gnaw a carrot.
I just couldn’t bear it.
I’d rather wear drapes as a skirt!
I’ll lie and I’ll steal
to acquire a hot meal,
but I won’t chew on roots from the dirt.

I’ve had it with tubers,
with parsnips and goobers.
They’re fit for a hog in a pen.
Until I’m struck witless,
as God is my witness,
I’ll never be hungry again.

[John Whitworth]

It doesn't specify something in the style of another poet. So here's just me.

Toad-in-the-Hole

Frenchmen go to the dogs thinking horses and frogs
Are the stuff they should put in their bellies,
And those hordes of Italians, as potent as stallions,
Chew pizzas and tagliatelles.
Though a burger and relish may taste pretty hellish,
Americans think it the thing.
But an Englishman’s soul craves you, Toad-in-the-Hole.
You’re the dish that is fit for a King.

Your sausage and batter makes everyone fatter.
Just look at the way that I’ve grown.
I’m so hearty and hale I can now turn the scale
At the best part of twenty-four stone.
You were made by my mum and I’ll not leave a crumb,
For there’s nothing as good in the shops.
No, I can’t get enough of your wonderful stuff.
YOU’RE A TOAD-IN-THE-HOLE AND YOU’RE TOPS!

[Ann Drysdale]

Oh, Susan - I'd forgotten goobers!