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The Midnight Dash
by Pat Johnson


The purple of the heather and the yellow blooming gorse,
Sunlight glinting water on a Scottish loch, of course,
And hiding there in camouflage, his coat a purple grey,
A haggis waits so silently - the hunted and the prey.

Not many people see them for they hide from prying eyes
As their coats are very special and this they realise.
Any movement on the hills sees them rush off to their warrens
For wicked Scotsmen hunt them down and use their fur for sporrans !
It's such a shame to see these creatures live their lives in fear
And nearing their extinction, as their numbers fall each year.

A haggis roaming through the hills presents a funny sight,
With two short legs upon their left and long ones on their right.
They stand upon the mountainside, on ledges so precarious,
But should they travel clockwise the sight is quite hilarious.

The sadness of the haggis is the way that they must travel,
Surefooted, yes, and competent, in fields or on the gravel.
But granite, sloping mountainsides in sunshine or in snow,
They can only travel one way round, and this the hunters know.
Every trapper knows he must approach them from the right
To make the haggis turn around for then it cannot fight.
Without their warrens close at hand they have nowhere to hide,
The haggis turns and tumbles, falling down the mountainside.

At the bottom of their fall they will end up in a net
Where, all dignity forgotten, they are examined by a vet.
They're checked for weight and length of fur, for general health and sizing,
Subjection to this type of test is quite demoralising.

Into a lidded box they're placed and loaded on the trolley,
Wheeled away across the glen and put onto a lorry.
Now all across the country there is a ban in place
To stop the haggis smuggling and so preserve the race,
But scheming, kilted Scotsmen know they'll make a lot of cash
If they get across the border on the Midnight Haggis Dash.

Eddie Stobart lorries can be spotted on long and winding roads,
Traversing Highlands southwards with their quietly groaning loads.
Their drivers might look smartly dressed, always shirts and ties,
But have you seen their faces and the glint within their eyes ?

As the Stobart wagons wend their way across the Borders,
The haggis coats are shaved right off and sporrans made to orders.
When the drivers stop for rest breaks as they make their way to Dover,
They take the opportunity - to transfer sporrans over.
So the finished sporrans are en route back to Inverness
While the haggis rolls on southwards - it's a crime you must confess.
In the back of lorries, naked haggis shake and jump with fright 
As the Stobart lorries keep on driving through the night.

The sporrans, back in Scotland, earn the men a packet
And no-one seems to care enough to stop this awful racket.
The pink-skinned, hairless haggis are never seen again,
Their demise is truly shocking, their ending full of pain -
Put on Paris plates in a steamy, onioned fricassee,
They become a fat, French gourmet's delicious wee delicacy.

Each year the haggis numbers fall, they're getting less and less,
And something must be sorted out to stop this awful mess.
A solution is quite simple - make the sporrans out of leather
To be worn in happy sunshine or in Scotland's rainy weather.
Let haggis roam the Highlands freely, let them nest in trees,
Let them live, leave them be, stop haggis hunting - PLEASE !

Thanks to John Tobin for sending this in.


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