The Restaurant

I WONDER what he finds to think,
Old fatty, there, his cheek stuffed round;
With solemn air his eyelids sink
And rise and sink. O, flesh profound!
Unerringly, skilled quick, with grace,
Puffy hands attack each heap,
Raise starchy rows in gravied space
And a greasy harvest reap.
Silence magisterial there
Surrounds his ceremonial seat.

Attendants hover round his chair.
A swarthy Ganymede complete
With napkin, tray and coffeepot
Keeps full the great man’s nectar cup
With a liquid dripping — sipping hot.

Silently two others sup,
Their servile imitation geared
To flatter him who thus provides
For wife and child (O richly reared!)
Such bounties that their fatted sides
In his own image now are made.

O, tread they well the paths of peace!
No ruffling thought can ever raid
That insulating fat and grease.