Classic Poem

I'll write no more verses — plague take 'em! —
Court neither your smiles nor your frowns,
If you'll only please tell how to make 'em,
Those flapjacks of Brown's.
Three cupfuls of flour will do nicely,
And toss in a teaspoon of salt;
Next add baking powder, precisely
Two teaspoons, the stuff to exalt;
Of sugar two tablespoons, heaping —
(All spoons should be heaping, says Neal);
Then mix it with strokes that are sweeping,
And stir like the Deil.

Three eggs. (Tho' the missus may sputter,
You'll pay to her protest no heed.)
A size-of-an-egg piece of butter,
And milk as you happen to need.
Now mix the whole mess with a beater;
Don't get it too thick or too thin.
(And I pause to remark that this meter
Is awkward as sin.)

Of course there are touches that only
A genius like Brown can impart;
And genius is everywhere lonely,
And no one but Brown has the art.
I picture him stirring — a gentle
Exponent of modern Romance,
With his shirttails, in style Oriental,
Outside of his pants.