Ballade of the Breakfast Table
When the Festal Board, as the papers say,
Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat,
At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner,
(As a bard tri-lingual I’m rather neat)
At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,
This is what gets me into a huff,
This is a query I cannot beat:
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
I’ve broken my fast with the grave and gay,
With hoi polloi and with the elite;
I’ve been all over the U. S. A.
From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street.
But aye when I sit in the morning seat
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff,
Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
Take it at breakfast, only to-day:
This was the layout, fresh and sweet:
Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay; [Footnote: And about as edible.]
Cereal-one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This space for sale.]
of wheat;
Soft-boiled eggs (we’ve cut out the meat):
Coffee (a claro-manila-buff):
Napery, china, and glasses complete–
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
L’ENVOI
Autocratesses, forgive my heat,
But isn’t it time to change that stuff?
Small is the benison I entreat–
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
