"Some singers sing of ladies' eyes,
and some of ladies' lips,
refined ones praise their 
ladylike ways,
and coarse ones hymn their hips.
The Oxford Book of English Verse
Is lush with lyrics tender;
A poet, I guess, is more or less
Preoccupied with gender.
Yet I, though custom call me crude,
Prefer to sing in praise of food.
 
Food,
Yes, food,
Just any old kind of food.
Pooh for the cook,
And pooh for the price!
Some of its nicer but 
all of its nice.
Pheasant is pleasant, 
of course, 
And terrapin, too, is tasty,
Lobster I freely endorse,
In pate or patty or pasty.
But there's nothing the 
matter with butter,
And nothing the matter 
with jam,
And the warmest of 
greetings I utter
To ham and the yam 
and the clam.
For they're food
All food,
And I think very highly of food.
Though I'm broody at times
When bothered by rhymes,
I brood
On food.
 
Some painters paint the 
sapphire sea,
And some the gathering storm.
Others portray young ladies at play,
But most, the female form.
'Twas trite in that primeval dawn
When painting got its start,
That a lady with her garments on
Is Life, but is she Art?
By undraped nymphs 
I am not wooed.
I'd rather painters painted food.
 
Food,
Just food,
Just any old kind of food.
Let it be sour
Or let it be sweet,
As long as you're sure it is
 something to eat.
Go purloin a sirloin, my pet,
If you'd win a devotion incredible;
And asparagus tips vinaigrette,
Or anything else that is edible.
Bring salad or sausage or
 scrapple,
A berry or even a beet.
Bring an oyster, an egg, 
or an apple,
As long as it's something to eat.
If it's food,
It's food;
Never mind what kind of food.
When I ponder my mind
I consistently find
It is glued

On food.


Ogden Nash captured some of our fascination 
with food in his poem 
The Clean Platter

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