Millie travelled to Scotland’s fair land,
To find and fulfil a plan extravagantly grand.
She wanted a Scot, tall, sexy and strapping,
To sate a secret desire for some sexy unwrapping.

So, she scoured the land of thistle and heather,
Diligently hunting, whatever the weather.
Hunting her prey in the deepest glen,
And seeking her desires upon the tallest ben.

Eventually her eyes feasted on a handsome Jock,
Comely enough to make her loosen her frock.
Enquired she, “I want to know what’s under your sporran.”
“Pure Scottish loost,” Jock winked, “But naethin' tae foreign.”

“Well about Scots, if it’s true what they say,
My, I’d like to have with you my wicked way.”
“It’s possible yer oot yer face,
But please feel free tae feest oan mah burgeonin' mace.”

So, Millie did lift high his tartan kilt,
And, oh my did she sigh, shudder then wilt,
As the sight of his glorious bulging neeps,
Did give her the goose bumps and tingling creeps.

Nevertheless she asked, “Can I toss your caber?
I want to see the fruits of your labour.”
“Och aye dear lassie, please dae try,
But best turn yer heed ah case ah damage yer eye.”

So, every muscle and sinew she stretched,
While across his face concentration was etched.
Her two hands on his caber barely fit round,
With leverage needed, her feet pushed the ground.

Then with a deep groan, a mutter and high-pitched howl,
Followed by a ghostly, low, guttural growl.
His caber did burst his finest single malt,
Like creamy cock-a-leekie with a strong dash of salt.

“Well,” gasped Millie, “I truly must confess,
Your caber has made such an awful sticky mess!
But I’m glad I ventured north of Hadrian’s wall,
Because Scottish porridge oats really do top them all.”