Classic Poem

'Tis made of the flour of wheat, so they say,
Although I confess to the dawnings
Of doubt how they mix it on Avenue A
Before it is dried on the awnings.

Fair Italy's sons in the family shed
Alluringly drape it and coil it;
But don't be afraid, for the microbes are dead
As nails when you properly boil it.

'Tis blithe, in the cellars of festive New York
To see how the diners assail it!
Some mince it, some reel up its lengths on a fork,
While others devoutly inhale it.

It should be absorbed to " Faniculi's " strains,
Or, maybe, to " Santa Lucia's. "
All poets agree it is good for the brains.
The best may be had at Maria's.

I like it served hotter, by twenty degrees,
Than any place mentioned by Dante;
Then, quickly! Beppino, with plenty of cheese,
And don't you forget the Chianti!