What haggis hangs here, blocking air and lamp?
This cellar’s atmosphere is what you grow
accustomed to at peril, and the stamp
of roundhead boots makes our life here below
the stairs not that enlightened save for thunder,
and lightning that casts shadows: Ermintrude,
projection of a haggis! Does she wonder,
albeit sheepishly, how Duncan would
make wing to rooky wood? This haggis nesting
above our heads, and fetid, makes our fast
less difficult than Cromwell’s, always questing
to root his futures from the simple past.
The haggis, falling, stifles our debate
as we divide its awful on our plate.