A crust o' bread. Pastries o' lead. Any'hin', tae line the coffin; I call't a stomach. Fae a brimmin', ale-filled tankard cup. And, nae longer cawin' crows in me hands be worth twa, and, sixpence, flush.

Eatin' sins, before the Lord,
frae a sinist'r, smorgasbord.
Me gnashin' gams, offer, bless'd relief.
Tae the dearly, and, sometimes,
nearly, depart'd. Distasteful reminders, o' the ugliest natures, we be seldom confessin', tae tak part in.

It's a piece o' cakie!

Ev'ry morsel, I have nestled,...