Food Service

Uneaten gourmet fish sticks on my plate,
Discarded bottles of sweet prairie wine,
I chose to end the meal rather than dine
Without my own staff’s service. What I hate
Is that suggestion that another wait
On table when my footman, Gertrude Stein,
Is unavailable. What’s mine is mine;
Or else I’ll eat directly from the crate.

I had the crate delivered to my door
With sprigs of watercress and garlic buds.
The slaughtered sheep had chewed long on their cuds,
The apples had been eaten to the core
By favoured goats, who would have swallowed more
If we had let them. I won’t eat soap suds.