Classic Poem

These diners should have sat for old Franz Hals,
For all their faces are as round as moons,
Glowing with jovial warmth and creased with smiles
At the turbulent clatter of many forks and spoons.

There is no music and no cabaret —
China and linen both are coarse and plain —
But food there is, such stout and honest food
As tells a body he has not dined in vain.

Behind a bar three corpulent men in white
Are opening oysters, one by one by one,
Laying them delicately on beds of ice,
Friendly and slow, as if they think it fun.

Far back in the room there is a mighty grill
Ruddy with fire, clouded with fragrant steam,
Where ducks and chickens and other gentry turn
Over and over in a drowsy dream.

And through the air come speeding plates piled high
With giant potatoes, opened, foamy white,
Genial, impressive beefsteaks, lobsters pink
As coral beads, and pastry crisp and light.

This is the place of plenty I like best.
I watch Manhattan burghers and their wives
Eating tremendously, as all men should,
To please their palates and to save their lives.

No finicky fashion, no satiety,
No smirking gesture, and no sour debate
Trouble these diners. They are one with life,
Now for a while, though narticulate.

Such excellent food demands much company
Oh, to go out with friendly haste and find
The hungriest hungry souls and dine them here —
It would be good to entertain mankind!