Some singers sing of ladies' eyes, <br />And some of ladies lips, <br />Refined ones praise their ladylike ways, <br />And course ones hymn their hips. <br />The Oxford Book of English Verse <br />Is lush with lyrics tender; <br />A poet, I guess, is more or less <br />Preoccupied with gender. <br />Yet I, though custom call me crude, <br />Prefer to sing in praise of food. <br />Food, <br />Yes, food, <br />Just any old kind of food. <br />Pheasant is pleasant, of course, <br />And terrapin, too, is tasty, <br />Lobster I freely endorse, <br />In pate or patty or pasty. <br />But there's nothing the matter with butter, <br />And nothing the matter with jam, <br />And the warmest greetings I utter <br />To the ham and the yam and the clam. <br />For they're food, <br />All food, <br />And I think very fondly of food. <br />Through I'm broody at times <br />When bothered by rhymes, <br />I brood <br />On food. <br />Some painters paint the sapphire sea, <br />And some the gathering storm. <br />Others portray young lambs at play, <br />But most, the female form. <br />“Twas trite in that primeval dawn <br />When painting got its start, <br />That a lady with her garments on <br />Is Life, but is she Art? <br />By undraped nymphs <br />I am not wooed; <br />I'd rather painters painted food. <br />Food, <br />Just food, <br />Just any old kind of food. <br />Go purloin a sirloin, my pet, <br />If you'd win a devotion incredible; <br />And asparagus tips vinaigrette, <br />Or anything else that is edible. <br />Bring salad or sausage or scrapple, <br />A berry or even a beet. <br />Bring an oyster, an egg, or an apple, <br />As long as it's something to eat. <br />If it's food, <br />It's food; <br />Never mind what kind of food. <br />When I ponder my mind <br />I consistently find <br />It is glued <br />On food.<br /><br />Ogden Nash<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clean-plater/
