Introduction
On Burns Night it is a custom to read poems by the bard during the course of the dinner, it is not unknown for someone at the table to declare that they have recently found an unpublished lost poem from the bard.
Well I recently discovered this going through my great uncle's things, who like me was a vegetarian. It was clearly penned by the bards hand and may remind you of another of his great poems. I shall leave you to ponder the implications.
Ode to a Vegi Rissole
Fair be thine honest merry face,
Great lord of the vegetable race,
Above them all you take your place,
Grated carrot, courgette and oats.
Well be thee worthy of a grace,
Great lord of the vegetable race,
Above them all you take your place,
Grated carrot, courgette and oats.
Well be thee worthy of a grace,
To sliver down our throats.
The groaning platter there thee fill,
Thine buttocks like a distant hill,
Thine buttocks like a distant hill,
Thine spatula would repair a mill,
In time of need.
Thine juices emerge, what a thrill,
It is to see you bleed.
In time of need.
Thine juices emerge, what a thrill,
It is to see you bleed.
Thine knife be ready for the rite,
And cuts you up without a fight,
And cuts you up without a fight,
Digging into thine gushing insides bright,
Like any witch.
And then, oh what a glorious sight,
Warm, steaming, rich.
Like any witch.
And then, oh what a glorious sight,
Warm, steaming, rich.
Then, with silver weapons they strive,
Devil take the last man, on they drive,
Until their swollen bellies arrive,
Are stretched like drums.
But now who’s belly wilt survive,
When the time comes.
Devil take the last man, on they drive,
Until their swollen bellies arrive,
Are stretched like drums.
But now who’s belly wilt survive,
When the time comes.
There be that loose French Ragout,
Or soya that would sicken a sprout,
Or fricassee would make them shout,
Or soya that would sicken a sprout,
Or fricassee would make them shout,
This be no winner!
Looks down with a sneering scornful doubt,
On such a dinner.
Looks down with a sneering scornful doubt,
On such a dinner.
Poor devil, see him over his blush,
As weak as a withered rush,
His spindle-shank reduced to mush
As weak as a withered rush,
His spindle-shank reduced to mush
His clenched fist extremely split.
Through a bloody battle field to crush,
Oh how unfit.
Through a bloody battle field to crush,
Oh how unfit.
But note the rissole fed St George,
fashioned in the vegan forge,
Clasped in his hefty fist to gorge
Clasped in his hefty fist to gorge
He'll make it whistle.
Its savoury innards to disgorge,
Like the tops of thistles.
Like the tops of thistles.
Thee powers who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Old England wants no watery ware,
That splashes in the bowl.
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Gie her a vegi rissole!
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Old England wants no watery ware,
That splashes in the bowl.
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Gie her a vegi rissole!
Copyright Andrew Rea 2009
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