Some singers sing of ladies' eyes
And some of ladies lips
Refined ones praise their ladylike ways
And coarse 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 bu*ter
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