In Antwerp, Bruges, Ostend and Ghent <br /> I used to order food with flair, <br /> But in every inn to which I went <br /> They always brought me, with my fare, <br /> With every roast and mutton dish, <br /> With boar, with rabbit, pigeon, bustard, <br /> With fresh and with salt-water fish, <br /> Always, never asking, mustard. <br /> <br /> I ordered herring, said I'd like <br /> Carp for supper at the bar, <br /> And called for simple boiled pike, <br /> And two large sole, when I ate at Spa. <br /> I ordered green sauce when in Brussels; <br /> The waiter stared and looked disgusted; <br /> The bus boy brought in with my mussels <br /> As always, never asking, mustard. <br /> <br /> I couldn't eat or drink without it. <br /> They add it to the water they <br /> Boil the fish in and-don't doubt it- <br /> The drippings from the roast each day <br /> Are tossed into a mustard vat <br /> In which they're mixed, and then entrusted <br /> To those who bring-they're trained at that- <br /> Always, never asking, mustard. <br /> <br /> <br /> Prince, it's clear a spice like clove <br /> can drop its guard. It won't be busted. <br /> There's just one thing these people serve: <br /> Always, never asking, mustard.<br /><br />Eustache Deschamps<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ballade-2/
