Taffy and the Man
As a member of the Taffy Consumers' League, the Jumbler offers this bit of defence:
I have eaten grits and gravy in the Southland now and then,
I have lived on California's luscious fruits;
I've inhaled long-stringed spaghetti in Italia, and again
In the Klondike once I dined on cowhide boots.
Of course I've supped at Rector's, at the Cecil, and the rest;
Tackled truffles and de foie gras in Paree;
I have bolted guava jelly and tortillas, Madrid's best,
And I've chop-sticked bird's-nest soup a la Chinee.
But of all the palate-ticklers on the whole world's bill of fare,
Whether ladled out at morning, night or noon,
Not a gustatory stimulant that I know can compare
With a little dab of taffy on a spoon.
If a man is grouched or peevish, if in doling cash he's slow—
Just a little bit of taffy—presto! won!!
Every married woman knows it—every girlie ought to know:
If you feed a man of taffy he's undone.
When a man tries introspection, then he stacks up mighty small;
So he keeps from this self-searching all he can;
Yet a feeling lies inherent, never's lost in him at all,
That he'd like to be a bigger, better man.
So when other people tell him that he's bigger, nicer far,
Or a better chap than he himself can see,
There is worked a transformation and his stock goes way 'bove par,
And he feels the man he'd really like to be.
It's not Vanity that does it, but his Better Self you view
As he smiles and purrs and pleases all he can.
As a corking good investment I would hand this tip to you:
Just try always feeding taffy to a man.
Do not stinge nor be too saving, don't conserve this priceless boon,
But feed as though you had an endless store;
With an appetite voracious he will gulp it from the spoon,
And when all's gone he'll loudly cry for more.
