FOOD.

We've eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry's and the Ritz —

The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon too.

We've sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and Meurice,

Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never knew.

From tables where the Northern Fires greet the coming night —

To Raffles out in Singapore and the Palace in Bombay;

From Shepheard's ( which means Cairo ) to that little hostelry

Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs sway.

We've traveled north, we've traveled south by all routes known to man —

We've traveled east, we‘ ve traveled west by some they scarcely came:

From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar,

From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things and game.

The place — a little half deserted town in northern France:

The time — a time of carnage, of wanton strife and hate:

And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two

Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands of Fate.

Just from the Commissary, the Salvation or the Y,

I've got a bar of chocolate, some butter and some cake;

A canteen full of milk, and eggs, from the old farmhouse near by,

And with this tout ensemble you can see I'm sitting jake.

And I'm breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty bowl

( The while the eggs are frying, “Sur le plat, oui, s'il vous plait” ),

And pouring from my canteen's gurgling mouth a draught of milk,

To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way.

And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the veil —

So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy —

And maybe you will understand why other dinners pale,

And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy.