“The Clean Plater” by Ogden
Nash

 

Some singers sing of ladies’
eyes,

And some of ladies lips,

Refined ones praise their
ladylike ways,

And course ones hymn their
hips.

The Oxford Book of English
Verse

Is lush with lyrics tender;

A poet, I guess, is more or
less

Preoccupied with gender.

Yet I, though custom call me
crude,

Prefer to sing in praise of
food.

Food,

Yes, food,

Just any old kind of food.

Pheasant is pleasant, of
course,

And terrapin, too, is tasty,

Lobster I freely endorse,

In pate or patty or pasty.

But there’s nothing the
matter with butter,

And nothing the matter with
jam,

And the warmest greetings I
utter

To the ham and the yam and
the clam.

For they’re food,

All food,

And I think very fondly of
food.

Through I’m broody at times

When bothered by rhymes,

I brood

On food.

Some painters paint the
sapphire sea,

And some the gathering
storm.

Others portray young lambs
at play,

But most, the female form.

“Twas trite in that primeval
dawn

When painting got its start,

That a lady with her
garments on

Is Life, but is she Art?

By undraped nymphs

I am not wooed;

I’d rather painters painted
food.

Food,

Just food,

Just any old kind of food.

Go purloin a sirloin, my
pet,

If you’d win a devotion
incredible;

And asparagus tips
vinaigrette,

Or anything else that is
edible.

Bring salad or sausage or
scrapple,

A berry or even a beet.

Bring an oyster, an egg, or
an apple,

As long as it’s something to
eat.

If it’s food,

It’s food;

Never mind what kind of
food.

When I ponder my mind

I consistently find

It is glued

On food. 

(Some shots from our thanksgiving turkey)