Fair fa' yer sonsie haddock or plaice,
Great chieftain o' the battered race;
wi' broon laced an' chips an' peas,
A sicht tae mak ye weak at the knees.
I've been doon an out wiv pain
That Bleddy Sqadder, he's in Spain
So Vino and a naughty curry
Hade me on the crapper in a hurry
Wi' plastic knife I stab ye braw,
An' then staun back an' stare in awe.
Wi' a smell like you it is nae wonder,
My bellie rumbles, lood as thunder.
Is there that Douglas his haggis an' neeps,
Or Boaty ower his Irish stew he peeps,
Wi' envious glances at my plate,
Wishin' it was you he'd ate.
A dish like you I hae each day,
As lang as yer din the Itie way,
Wrapped in the Daily Record ye lie,
A finer feed ye'll never spy.
O' Lord, forget yer breed an' jam,
Or great big pieces wi' lumps o' spam.
Tae let me ken I wilna suffer--
Jist gae me a big fish supper.