LOSS OF APPETITE by WALT MASON

WHEN Julia rang the dinner bell, I used to lift my voice and yell, and chortle
and repeat; my feet went weaving like a loom, until I reached the dining room
and settled down to eat. The victuals all looked good to me, the Lima bean, the

spud, the pea, the fragrant raisin pie; oh, every mouthful tasted sweet, and I
would sit and eat, and eat, and watch the buttons fly. But since I had that last

attack of pink lumbago in the back, my appetite's destroyed; the music of the
dinner bell has all the pathos of a knell, and life's an aching void. The
turnips taste just like the spuds; the coffee tastes like washday suds, the meat

tastes like the greens; the rich imported Worcester sauce reminds me of a total

loss, the prunes taste like the beans. The women rack their heads in vain to
think up dishes safe and sane, to tempt my appetite; the finest products of
their skill taste like the anti-bilious pill that I must take at night. If I
could only eat again, like yonder lean and hungry men, no cares should daunt my

heart; I'd laugh the ills of life to scorn, and blithely eat an ear of corn, a
cabbage and a tart.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!

Other Poems of Interest...