Horace Poem - Anyone ?
Dan
Much to his Mom 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 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
Erik D Larsen
Dant...@NOSPAMaol.com (Dan) wrote:
> None the less, since it was his
> They ate it - that's what haggis is*
* No it isn't. Ed. Haggis is a kind of stuffed black pudding eaten by the
Scots and considered by them to be not only a delicacy but fit for human
consumption. The minced heart, liver and lungs of a sheep, calf, or other
animals' inner organs are mixed with oatmeal, sealed and boiled in maw in
the sheep's intestinal stomach-bag and... Excuse me a minute. Ed.
The footnote is, IMO, the funniest part of the poem. In my mind's ear, I
can hear either Michael or John reading it in their deadpan "BBC
announcer" voices...
- Erik "Not the Comic Book Artist" Larsen
Founder, Head Honcho, & President-for-Life,
Carol Cleveland Appreciation & Jockstrap-Throwing Society
aka And now, the nine o'clock news ... read ... by Richard Baker.
Tim Chandler
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"Well. That's the sort of blinkard, phillistine ignorance I've come to expect
from you non-creative garbage. You sit there on your loathesome, spotty
behinds, squeezing blackheads and not caring a tinker's cuss for the
struggling artist, You Excrement! You Whining Hypocritical Toadies with your
Color TV sets and your Tony Chaplin Golf Clubs! And your Bleeeding Masonic
secret handshake!! You Wouldn't Let Me Join Would You, ya Blackballing
Bastards! WELL I WOULDN'T BECOME A FREE MASON NOW IF YOU WENT DOWN ON YOUR
LOUSY STINKING, PORRULENT KNEES AND BEGGED ME!!!!!!"
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Jason M. Collins
Would you like some crunchy frog, some cochroach custard, some rat tart,
or perhaps a dead unjugged rabit fish? We have plenty of rams-bladdar
cups, lots of anthrax ripple, and for desert, feel free to enjoy a spring
suprise. Haggis and Spam optional.