BURNS SUPPER

The poor haggis stands no chance against the curved blade

pulled, by an experienced hand, from a skirted waist.

With a dramatic wave and a declaration of “reekin’ rich”

the blade is plunged into the Scottish sausage.

Juice and mince ooze out, spilling over the intestinal wrap.

A cheer goes up and haggis is shared by all --

those who truly enjoy and those who merely indulge.

Toasts are given: to the lassies, to the laddies.

We recall a mouse and a louse; we revere a red red rose.

We remember auld acquaintances to be forgot.

We open and pour five or more bottles of scotch.

Laughs spill out as easily as the drinks.

For one night in January each year, we are all Scots.

For one night in January, Bobby Burns is bard of suburban Washington.