His vittles joy is pork, I’m told, from which comes ham;
also, it can yield wurst, heated up in a frying pan.
He’s G-O-Y; G-A-S-T-R-O-N-O-M-I-E
for him can be either pig or cow.
He hails from the Hebrides.

Where “ee-i-ee-i-oh,” says he, in a heavy-burr way.
Vittles W-O-E: it’s baaaaaaaaaaad; I bleat, “Oink Vey!”
when haggis arrives, it will be pure H-E double L for me.
So perhaps what he means is, “eek-fie-ee-fie, grossery!”

I’d rather eat a pile of chitlins
or McD’s buffet.
“D-I-S-G-U-S-T-A-T-I-O-N!” I say.
What else is on that farm he works?
He has chicks, but no geese;
another type of bird is turk-ies. . .
cow milk for cheese.

Still, “ee-i-ee-i-oh,” says he, where the doggies play.
He digs with the H-O-E; then some café au lait
he’ll make from milk that’s sure S-W-E double L; Bossie
then becomes his concudbine [sic], and “ee!-i!-ee!-i!-O!,” screams he.