I beg you come to-night and dine. <br />A welcome waits you, and sound wine-- <br />The Roederer chilly to a charm, <br />As Juno's breath the claret warm, <br />The sherry of an ancient brand. <br />No Persian pomp, you understand-- <br />A soup, a fish, two meats, and then <br />A salad fit for aldermen <br />(When alderman, alas, the days! <br />Were really worth their mayonnaise); <br />A dish of grapes whose clusters won <br />Their bronze in Carolinian sun; <br />Next, cheese--for you the Neufchâtel, <br />A bit of Cheshire likes me well; <br />Café au lait or coffee black, <br />With Kirsch or Kümmel or Cognac <br />(The German band in Irving Place <br />By this time purple in the face); <br />Cigars and pipes. These being through, <br />Friends shall drop in, a very few-- <br />Shakespeare and Milton, and no more. <br />When these are guests I bolt the door, <br />With Not at Home to any one <br />Excepting Alfred Tennyson.<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-menu/
