THE NEW FOOD.
I hear the scientist in grief
With all the strength he has moan—
“Why will the public feed on beef?
Why don’t they take to plasmon?
Give up your pork and venison, too,
Give up your lamb and mutton;
There’s in a penn’orth—nay, it’s true—
Enough to gorge a glutton.
“Its natural organic salt,
Its nutritive albumen
Will make the sick sound, heal the halt,
And make the palsied new men.
And it fulfils my dearest wish—
O sing its praises louder!—
You need no knife or plate or dish,
You take it in a powder.
“Buy it, and see your means expand,
You’ll spend less and you’ll waste less—
It saves the cost of cooking—and
I guarantee it tasteless,
And think as it new strength instils
And with new health you throb, you’ll
Soon take your alcohol in pills
And breakfast in a globule.”
But though for food be plasmon fit,
Its praise in me quicken
Such cravings that the thought of it
Makes me feel famine-stricken.
And think you then my meal shall be
On plasmon?—Fiddle-faddle!
The simple sirloin still for me,
And now and then the saddle!
St. James’s Gazette.
✷ ✷ ✷ ✷