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a Petrarchan sonnet
Oh Danny boy, butcher,
sportsman, an’ friend,
runs a wee bit shoap oan Concession Street
that sells Scottish fare naebody can beat.
Sweeties, Tizer, Irn Bru, there is nae end:
Soady scones, rolls, an’ black crust breid he’ll vend
tae Scots that love the taste o’ hame; A treat
frae far away. Och man, if ye could meet
this friendly guy, yer life wid ken nae end.
Opies. Oh - pies! Mutton, chicken, or steak;
Haggis, proud chieftain o’ the pudden group;
such a host of epicurean joys -
too bad he canny make black pudden soup!
His clandestine blend o’ condiments make
sure sausages, square or link, ur the boys! |
