My parents have come home laughing

    From the feast for Robert Burns， late， on foot；

    They have leaned against graveyard walls，

    Have bent double in the glittering frost，

    Their bladders heavy with tea and ginger.

    Burns， suspended in a drop， is flicked away

    As they wipe their eyes， and is not offended.

    What could offend him？  Not the squeaking bagpipe

    Nor the haggis which， when it was sliced， collapsed

    In a meal of blood and oats

    Nor the man who read a poem by Scott

    As the audience hissed embarrassment

    Nor the principal speaker whose topic，

    "Burns' View of Crop Rotation，" was intended

    For farmers， who were not present，

    Nor his attempt to cover this error， reciting

    The only Burns poem all evening，

    "Nine Inch Will Please a Lady，" to thickening silence.

    They drop their coats in the hall，

    Mother first to the toilet， then Father，

    And then stand giggling at the phone，

    Debating a call to the States， decide no，

    And the strength to keep laughing breaks

    In a sigh.  I hear， as their tired ribs

    Press together， their bedroom door not close

    And hear also a weeping from both of them

    That seems not to be pain， and it comforts me