I wake up every morning, smell of chips and haggis here, Sclarkeo’s on the soundboard, but my cravings are severe. We’re setting up the amps while I’m eyeing every cat, Sclarkeo’s talking levels, but I’m dreaming of a snack. It’s me, Sclarkeo doesn’t know, I’m craving more than chips on show. The band’s on fire, but all I see, Is haggis, fries, and feline recipe.