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Ballade of the Breakfast Table

When the Festal Board, as the papers say,
 Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat,
At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner,
 (As a bard tri-lingual I’m rather neat)
 At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,
This is what gets me into a huff,
 This is a query I cannot beat:
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
 
I’ve broken my fast with the grave and gay,
 With hoi polloi and with the elite;
I’ve been all over the U. S. A.
 From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street.
 But aye when I sit in the morning seat
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff,
 Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
 
Take it at breakfast, only to-day:
 This was the layout, fresh and sweet:
Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay; [Footnote: And about as edible.]
 Cereal-one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This space for sale.]
   of wheat;
 Soft-boiled eggs (we’ve cut out the meat):
Coffee (a claro-manila-buff):
 Napery, china, and glasses complete–
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
 
 
L’ENVOI
 
Autocratesses, forgive my heat,
 But isn’t it time to change that stuff?
Small is the benison I entreat–
 Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?
Other works by Franklin Pierce Adams...



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