‘Twas midday before Christmas and Lachlan MacLinner,
Was out hunting game for his family’s dinner.
Plaid stockings clung tight to his legs with great care,
Whilst ‘neath the man’s kilt, swung an unfettered pair.
The winter wind callously cut him with meanness,
It chapped at his chops and made prune of his penis.
All around him tall grass gave a veil to his prey,
But onward he trudged; He could spare no delay.
For his wife, Osla Jean, was an ill-tempered shrew,
Like a banshee she’d shriek till her face would turn blue,
So a-hunting he’d go if it took him all night,
If he brought home no supper, his name would be shite.
When at once in the brush there arose a slight stirring,
His heart skipped a beat and his throat began burning.
For his eyes had befallen a gentle young ewe,
“Why, this cloven hoofed beauty will certainly do!”
Then clutching his favorite bludgeoning cudgel,
He fondled the handle and gleefully chuckled
And gently knelt down in a Bonnie Bloom bed,
As visions of lamb chops danced ‘round in his head.
But then something happened he couldn’t explain:
Synapses fired and popped in his brain.
Where once stood his family’s holiday supper,
Transformed right before him, disrupting his scupper.
He chanced a step closer; His hands became clammy,
His eyes, cartoon hearts, as he ogled the lammy.
With another step toward her, their eyes met at last,
And the both of them knew what would pass in the grass.
Well, the sheep barely noticed his Billy club clatter,
To the ground with a pound, matting flowers much flatter.
And hungrily eyeing the beast from above,
Whispered he, “Bless me bagpipes, I think I’m in love.”
So he lifted his kilt, and he rosined his tool,
Grabbed a fistful and pulled on the delicate wool.
And much more, did they share, than a roll in the hay,
The phrase “rack of lamb” took new meaning that day.
Then he shivered and grunted, and sighed and he coughed,
And he loosened his grip on her coat ever soft.
Readjusting his hair underneath his two hats,
Lachlan laughed, “Jaysus Christ, I ‘bout soiled me spats!”
Then he struck up a match on a thick Birnam Oak,
Drawing in a deep breath for to light up his smoke.
But his lighthearted mood quickly faded to dark,
And he swung at the oak landing blows in the bark.
Wincing, he cradled his bloodied left hand,
His tortured lament echoed out through the land,
“I have never known love like I’ve felt for this flower,”
“I cannae go home, I just dooon’t have the power!”
A Scotsman divided was Lachlan MacLinner,
Go home empty-handed or stay there a sinner.
Whichever decision he chose to pursue,
Would be equally wretched a hullabaloo.
So famished and frozen, he stood as it stormed,
When he felt a soft tickling brush tender and warm.
At his hand lapped the lamb, and ‘twas then Lachlan knew,
Precisely just that which he needed to do.
The townsfolk flocked ‘round as he made his return,
“Lachlan’s braved through the storm!” the mob audibly churned.
“Were it cold old enough fer ye?” dogged Dougal Dundeather.
“Oh, shut it, ye bawbag,‘tis fine Scottish weather.”
Then from over his shoulder he hoisted his prize,
And brought it down softly before widened eyes.
“Ye doss lucky bas.” Hamish Henderson said,
“Tha’s a foin piece o’ mutton there, Lachy m’lad.”
“But tell me, MacLinner, just how did ye foind,
Such a right, bonnie beast in the snow?” Hamish pined.
Then Lachlan MacLinner grinned sheepishly, sighing,
And shrugging he answered “Oh, quite satisfying.”