First Porridge Of Winter

                                    First Porridge Of Winter

First porridge of winter,
warm and steamy in my bowl,
spooned it down for breakfast,
to content me like a vole.

Made me feel quite Scottish,
enough to quote Robert Burns,
thought whatever changes,
the wheel of seasons turns.

Wish to sing your praises,
O, bowl of porridge oats.
Will whittle out the words,
if you pipe up the notes.

Strong to toss the caber,
sprightly do a Highland jig,
like a bird chirp through cold,
on a bare, sharp knotted twig.

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