From an Alternative Burns Night

There once was a haggis from Wick,
Which made people horribly sick.
It was filled with the guts
Of a pair of dead mutts,
And a sauce from a rancid oil slick.

The Epicure

He stuffs himself fat,
And drinks himself stupid;
He smokes every last friggin' fag in the pack.
And his heart's a fine organ,
But it ain't playin' Cupid
(Though his ticker is dodgy,
It has always come back.)

He drinks himself fat,
And eats himself stupid;
He gnaws every last friggin' bone in the freezer.
Though the odds are he'll last
Just a year, he'll bet two, bid
The house on a nice, happy life -
Drink a Breezer.

'All You Can Eat' is a challenge he'll take;
He will gorge till he's gagged,
And he'll swill till he's slewed.
In the morgue where he lies,
His big toe has been tagged.
And his friends raise a toast to him:
'One happy dude !'

The Widows of Longville

There are four widows on my street;
I fear them when they daily meet
To chat about 'who might be next.'
My cry for help ? I send a text.

Their men expired without a fuss,
Back when our street was known as 'Us'.
Those couples seemed so nicely matched !
But now each dame's alone - detached.

Old Johnson's heart was poorly wired,
And Baker ? Well, he just got tired.
MacGregor's lungs filled with 'Big C',
And Pollard's tractor hit a tree.

And me ? Good health, but can't be smug ;
My dame may find some poison drug !
Then join the four for daily chats,
While we dead boys feed graveyard rats.