'Tis made of the flour of wheat, so they say, Although I confess to the dawnings Of doubt how they mix it in Avenue A Before it is dried in the awnings. Fair Italy's sons in the family shed Alluringly drape it and coil it; But don't be afraid, for the microbes are dead As nails when you properly boil it. 'Tis blithe in the cellars of festive New York To see how the diners assail it! Some mince it, some reel up its lengths on a fork, While others devoutly inhale it. It should be absorbed to "Faniculi's" strains, Or, maybe, to "Santa Lucia's." All poets agree it is good for the brains. The best may be had at Maria's. I like it served hotter, by twenty degrees, Than any place mentioned by Dante, Then, quickly! Beppino, with plenty of cheese, And don't you forget the Chianti! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WESTERN CIVILIZATION by JAMES GALVIN THE MASK by CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY TWILIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW CHRISTMAS AT SEA by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON LAUS VENERIS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |