Classic Poem

This is the Fish-Market: and all about me,
I see uncooked, the dishes I endorse;
Sending an eager appetite throughout me,
With thoughts of “Yorkshire sauce!”

And here's a halibut—a hundred pounder!
With edible fins—a fact considered odd;
With mottled mackerel, and dejected flounder,
And melancholy cod.

Oh, what an epicurean, queer sensation,
Invades my nerves, and o'er my palate steals—
A longing for a savory, salt sea-ration,
When I contemplate eels!

And oysters too! How could these gentle verses
Descant at length on these delightful themes;
But yet—alas for impecunious purses,
I eat them but in dreams!

Again in dreams, I see the dextrous waiter,
Unhinge those bivalves—interesting sight!
While I engulf them, like some yawning crater,
With growing appetite!

Adjacent, also, the congenial cruet's
Pungent persuasion makes me yearn for more;
But when quite gorged, I ask him what is due, it's
A most astounding score!

However, if I grow but one day older,
I'll superintend the cooking of each dish,
And spread a board to startle the beholder,
And fill myself with fish!

I'll have a blue-fish, stuffed with sage and cracker,
Long Island clams, stewed, fried, and in a pie;
The Muse must have good provender to back her,
And so, in fact, must I!

I'll have sea-bass, and lobster in the shell,
The only mode to save the ocean flavor—
And salmon, which I like extremely well,
And cod-steaks, which I favor.

Turtle I'll have—not mock, that's a delusion!
But genuine Dry Tortugas—iron-clad;
Muscles, and shrimps, in opulent profusion,—
Some scallops won't go bad!

I'll have gilt “Bills of Fare” on satin ribbon,
Note how each dish is caught, by net or hook
And be a royal Roman—after Gibbon,
And deify the cook!

I'll have a taste of most that lives in water,
From Madagascar to the Straits of Behring;
But I must pause for lunch; my dearest daughter,
Go buy me a red-herring!