Much to his Mum and Dad's dismay, Horace ate himself one day.
He didn't stop to say his grace, he just sat down and ate his face.
"We can't have this!" his Dad declared, "If that lad's 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 arms, his nose, his hair, 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!" the father mourns "You could have deep-fried that
with prawns,
Some parsley and and some tartar sauce..."
But H. was on his second course: his liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue; "To think I raised him from the cot,
And now he's going to scoff the lot!"
His Mother cried: "What shall we do? What's left won't 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...
None the less, since it *was* his, they ate it -- that's what haggis is.
