I devoured at dinner to-night,
Were to bring indigestion and lie on my chest
Like a log, putting slumber to flight,
It would still be my favourite dish, as of yore,
Let my sufferings be what they will,
And round the crisp crackling and stuffing galore
My thoughts linger lovingly still!
It is not while playing a good knife and fork,
When your frame’s undisturbed by a throe,
That the thought of the horrors attendant on pork