Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is, -- I hate all your Frenchified fuss: Your silly @3entrees@1 and made dishes Were never intended for us. No footman in lace and in ruffles Need dangle behind my arm-chair; And never mind seeking for truffles, Although they be ever so rare. But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, I pr'ythee get ready at three: Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy, And what better meat can there be? And when it has feasted the master, 'Twill amply suffice for the maid; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, And tipple my ale in the shade. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TREE OF SONG by SARA TEASDALE DYING SPEECH OF AN OLD PHILOSOPHER by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR MINIVER CHEEVY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON HUNTING HORNS by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE THE FOUNTAIN OF PITY by HENRY BATAILLE THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK by JAMES W. BLAKE |