A poem for Robbie Burns Day (from Monty Python)

Much to his dad and mum's dismay 
Horace ate himself one day 
He didn't stop to say his grace 
He just sat down and ate his face 
"We can't have this!" his dad declared 
"If that lad's ate he should be shared" 
But even as he spoke they saw 
Horace eating more and more: 
First his legs and then his thighs, 
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes 
"Stop him someone!" Mother cried 
"Those eyeballs would be better fried!" 
But all too late for they were gone, 
And he had started on his dong... 
"Oh foolish child!" the father mourned 
"You could have deep-fried those with prawns, 
Some parsely and some tartar sauce..." 
But H was on his second course; 
His liver and his lights and lung, 
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue 
"To think I raised himn from the cot 
And now he's gone to scoff the lot!" 
His mother cried what shall we do? 
What's left won't even make a stew..." 
And as she wept her son was seen 
To eat his head his heart his spleen 
And there he lay, a boy no more 
Just a stomach on the floor... 
None the less since it was his 
They ate it - and that's what haggis is