The address to a trifle

Sweet dreams upon your freckled face,

Fair princess o' the custard-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Sponge, Cookies or cakes:

Weel are ye wordy o' a grace

As lang's 1000 gummy snakes.

The dapper glass bowl there ye fill,

Put to mellow on a window sill,

Fresh creams compose your tender frill,

Sweet velvet and silk.

Your complexion is a perfect shill

Like honey and milk.

A spoon is all your lovers need,

To part your flesh like frisky reeds,

And digging fast with growing greed

Arriving at erubescent deeps

They shiver: from your heap

Divine nectar starts to weep.

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:

Deil tak the hindmaist! on they drive,

Till a' Haggis-swall'd kytes blyve,

Are soothed by your grace;

Auld Guidman no longer like to rive,

Wipes his face.

Is there that o're his Tiramisu

Or doughnut that wad staw a sow,

Or Creme Brulee wad mak her spew

Or sorbet, resembling sleet,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a sweet?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,

As feckless as a wither'd rash,

His spindle shank, a guid whiplash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, trifle fed,

Elysian clouds surround his head,

Divine his strength in barn and bed

A darling of the women fair

A model of a life to be led

Müesli eaters beware!.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware

That tastelessly rifles

Through the bowel. Wish her gratefu' prayer,

Gie her a trifle!

Frei nach Robert Burns.