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THE GOURMAND, SELECTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: He did not wear his swallow tail, / but a simple dinner coat
Last Line: The poor man with a knife.
Alternate Author Name(s): Streamer, Col. D.
Subject(s): Wilde, Oscar (1854-1900)


He did not wear his swallow tail,
But a simple dinner coat;
For once his spirits seemed to fail,
And his fund of anecdote.
His brow was drawn and damp and pale,
And a lump stood in his throat.

I never saw a person stare,
With looks so dour and blue,
Upon the square of bill of fare
We waiters call the 'M'noo',
And at every dainty mentioned there,
From entrée to ragout.

With head bent low and cheeks aglow,
He viewed the groaning board,
For he wondered if the chef would show
The treasures of his hoard,
When a voice behind him whispered low,
'Sherry or 'ock, m'lord?'

Gods! What a tumult rent the air,
As with a frightful oath,
He seized the waiter by the hair,
And cursed him for his sloth;
Then, grumbling like some stricken bear
Angrily answered, 'Both!'

For each man drinks the thing he loves,
As tonic, dram, or drug;
Some do it standing, in their gloves,
Some seated, from a jug;

The upper class from thin-stemmed glass,
The masses from a mug.

Some gorge forsooth in early youth,
Some wait till they are old;
Some take their fare off earthenware,
And some from polished gold.
The gourmand gnaws in haste because
The plates so soon grow cold.

Some eat too swiftly, some too long,
In restaurant or grill;
Some, when their weak insides go wrong,
Try a post-prandial pill,
For each man eats his fav'rite meats,
Yet each man is not ill.

He does not sicken in his bed,
Through a night of wild unrest,
With a snow-white bandage round his head,
And a poultice on his breast,
'Neath the nightmare weight of the things he ate
And omitted to digest.

I know not whether meals be short
Or whether meals be long;
All that I know of this resort,
Proves that there's something wrong,
And the soup is weak and tastes of port,
And the fish is far too strong.

The bread they bake is quite opaque,
The butter full of hair;
Defunct sardines and flaccid 'greens'
Are all they give us there.
Such cooking has been known to make
A common person swear.

To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes,
Is a pastime rare and grand;
But to eat of fish, or fowl, or fruits
To a Blue Hungarian Band
Is a thing that suits nor men nor brutes,
As the world should understand.

Six times a table here he booked,
Six times he sat and scanned
The list of dishes badly cooked
By the chef's unskilful hand;
And I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the band.

He did not swear or tear his hair,
But drank up wine galore,
As though it were some vintage rare
From an old Falermian store;
With open mouth he slaked his drouth,
And loudly called for more.

He was the type that waiters know,
Who simply lives to feed,
Who little cares what food we show
If it be food indeed,
And, when his appetite is low,
Falls back upon his greed.

For each man eats his fav'rite meats,
(Provided by his wife);
Or cheese or chalk, or peas or pork,
(For such, alas! is life!).
The rich man eats them with a fork,
The poor man with a knife.





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