Some singers sing of ladies' eyes, And some of ladies lips, Refined ones praise their ladylike ways, And course ones hymn their hips. The Oxford Book of English Verse Is lush with lyrics tender; A poet, I guess, is more or less Preoccupied with gender. Yet I, though custom call me crude, Prefer to sing in praise of food. Food, Yes, food, Just any old kind of food.
Pheasant is pleasant, of course, And terrapin, too, is tasty, Lobster I freely endorse, In pate or patty or pasty. But there's nothing the matter with butter, And nothing the matter with jam, And the warmest greetings I utter To the ham and the yam and the clam. For they're food, All food, And I think very fondly of food. Through I'm broody at times When bothered by rhymes, I brood On food.
Some painters paint the sapphire sea, And some the gathering storm. Others portray young lambs at play, But most, the female form. “Twas trite in that primeval dawn When painting got its start, That a lady with her garments on Is Life, but is she Art? By undraped nymphs I am not wooed; I'd rather painters painted food. Food, Just food, Just any old kind of food.
Go purloin a sirloin, my pet, If you'd win a devotion incredible; And asparagus tips vinaigrette, Or anything else that is edible. Bring salad or sausage or scrapple, A berry or even a beet. Bring an oyster, an egg, or an apple, As long as it's something to eat. If it's food, It's food; Never mind what kind of food. When I ponder my mind I consistently find It is glued On food.
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