Ode to drawing pin soup

With apologies to Robert Burns, something I wrote a few years ago.

Note: pastiche of Scottish vernacular ...

When ma bones are cold an spirits droop,

I pick mysel up wi drawing-pin soup:

First place a pan upon the hob,

A pint of milkie, half a nob,

Of finest butter if you may,

And tinned tomatties, flour and hay,

Then when the soup is on the boil,

I add fresh eggs and engine oil,

For drawing pins, the brass is best,

(Don' bother wi plastic and the rest),

When's hot enough to burn ma chin,

I shake th’ pinnies and pour them in,

Stir round three times, then three times more,

Do a jig upon the floor,

Then toast the soup wi’ highland gin,

Smash up th’ glass and toss it in,

Wait an hour then stir again,

Shhh . . . listen for this wee refrain:

“I’m ready now”, the soupy sings,

“To warm ye belly an' other things”,

I pour it quickly in a bowl,

And prepare mysel’ to cleanse ma soul,

I dinnae falter; I dinnae shirk,

So now I sit an admire ma work,

The soup is dandy, the soup is fancy,

The pinnies shimmer, dial and dancie,

I check ma watch, then wi’ some haste,

I grab a spoon and have a taste,

Oh the joy! We’re livin' through it,

I find a dumplin' made of suet,

It warms ma gizzard wi' its heat,

Spreads doon ma body head to feet, 

I feel a pinnie on ma tongue,

A brassy taste — the soup's still young,

The liquor runs now doon ma gullet,

I taste tomatties, savour, mull it,

Over as it fills ma mind, 

All worries distant, left behind,  

Now, if homely cooking takes your eye,

Your stationary cupboard’s in good supply,

You have some tools, the cookin' kind,

An’ you don't weather work's hard grind,

Then shirk your books o’ boring stews,

Tha’ packet food an’ tins of ooze,

Fetch your apron from the line,

An try cookin’ this wee dish o’ mine,

An if by now your lips are lickin,

You'll love ma recipe for paperclip chicken!