Burn's night; it's supposed to be mostly meat
and offals and good solid starches
But never so simple when liver catches on
feather and quills become entangled
Suddenly there are textures on phrases
that were never meant to be; where's the cut?
Too soft is this once a lung that breathed life
it's lovely chewy and soft, my next breath
Then the drams of whisky, the peat, the sea,
Oh damn, it's just a dinner, no its a wake.
Burns Night 2013
