Methuselah ate what he found on his plate, And never, as people do now, Did he note the amount of the calory count; He ate it because it was chow. He wasn't disturbed as at dinner he sat, Devouring a roast or a pie, To think it was lacking in granular fat Or a couple of vitamins shy. He cheerfully chewed each species of food, Unmindful of troubles or fears Lest his health might be hurt By some fancy dessert; And he lived over nine hundred years. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DINING-ROOM TEA by RUPERT BROOKE THE AGED STRANGER; AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR by FRANCIS BRET HARTE NATURE AND ART by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN THE RING AND THE BOOK: BOOK 2. HALF-ROME by ROBERT BROWNING MIDWINTER by MARGARET E. BRUNER |