Serviette ower lap or thrapple?
Blaw on soup — or brunt yer mou?
Ett yer pudden wi a fork.
Yon’s a stammygaster, noo!

Brakk a croissant wi yer fingers?
(Fur it skytes aneth a knife
Flees across yer ashet makkin
Squarly fur yer host’s guidwife.)

Mind yer pan-loaf, dinna steep it
In the broth, syne steer it ben
Dinna speir fit’s in the tatties
Fegs, ye widna wint tae ken.

Niver news wi half a pheasant
Keekin oot atween yer lips
Dinna glug the wine like Bacchus
Dilettantes sup in sips

Gin yer cutlery’s gey stoory
Niver dicht it on yer brikks
Till they bring ben the Drambuie
Ae fause move, ye’ve crossed the Styx.