Scottish Lang Syne Prayer

May the great Lord of mock chops

watch over our last repast.

Let the wipe clean plastic cloth

be sinless over the formica tartan alter

and be blessed by abundance

as Jesus winks and loosens his belt,

fat wee gallus angels wadle in,

well laden with platters of red pudding and polony.

These are glory days on high,

feast days full of potted hough.

May pan loafs be the sacrament

and pola cola the wine,

irn bru the blood everlasting.

Let bridies be broken and pies hatched,

tattie scone passed around muckle hands,

scotch measures be imbibed

(nae 25 mils be spoken),

wee heavy ales resurrected from

long deid breweries,

white pudding wands pass over the chosen,

separating haggis eater from the damned,

the Caledonian afterlife being nothing

but a cholestoral feast.