The other men may stand in line Where each his neighbor hunches, On sandwiches and pies to dine -- Aha! the vicious crunches! -- Or feed in cafes superfine Off tenderloins and punches; A tenderer repast is mine, For I've Miranda's lunches. They gobble down their gross affairs, Their "boiled New England dinners," Or their more delicate eclairs, And wine -- if they are sinners. A fico for Sir Fatty's airs As French menus he munches! I have a feast worth all of theirs, For I've Miranda's lunches. Upon the napkin, snowy white, There often lies a pansy; Beneath, the luncheon, cooked just right, Precisely to my fancy: Croquettes, nut sandwich, "baby pies," Young radish (little bunches), Marshmallows tucked in to surprise, M -- m, m -- m! Miranda's lunches! A woman's thoughtful tenderness, Some way, about it lingers; In touching it I seem to press Miranda's dainty fingers. What matter business fret and strife, And care that grinds and crunches, When one has such a blessed wife, Miranda, -- and her lunches? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE YOUNG LAUNDRYMAN by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER by ROBERT BURNS IN TENEBRIS: 2 by THOMAS HARDY THE PRESENT CRISIS by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SIT DOWN SAD SOUL by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER THE PALM-TREE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |