The Waist Line
Negli occhi era ciascuna oscura e cava, pallida nella faccia, e tanto scema che dall’ ossa la pelle s’ informava.
Dinner is the cruelest time, breeding
Odors of buttered biscuits, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull taste with the savory steam.
Afternoon kept us calm, covering
Appetite in forgetful work, feeding
A little life on dry tobacco.
Dinner surprised us, coming over the damask
With a shower of provender; we paused in the hors d’oeuvres,
But went on in the entree, into the salad,
Counting the calories. What are the roots that clutch?
Odors of buttered biscuits, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull taste with the savory steam.
Afternoon kept us calm, covering
Appetite in forgetful work, feeding
A little life on dry tobacco.
Dinner surprised us, coming over the damask
With a shower of provender; we paused in the hors d’oeuvres,
But went on in the entree, into the salad,
Counting the calories. What are the roots that clutch?
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a small fowl smoking upon the table,
Let us go quickly, quickly, while we’re able
Through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of sawdust restaurants with oyster shells.
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a small fowl smoking upon the table,
Let us go quickly, quickly, while we’re able
Through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of sawdust restaurants with oyster shells.
In the room the waiters come and go
Talking of roast beef and po-ta-to.
Talking of roast beef and po-ta-to.
Let us go, quickly, while we may
Quickly beyond these suburbs to the den
Of fat and prosperous men
Where there is duckling, pig
Pastry beyond telling, launchable
And the buttered asparagus and the yams
And cake and ice cream and
Quickly beyond these suburbs to the den
Of fat and prosperous men
Where there is duckling, pig
Pastry beyond telling, launchable
And the buttered asparagus and the yams
And cake and ice cream and
If there were pudding
And no pie
If there were pie
And also pudding
And pudding
A kitchen
A bakery among the suburbs
If there were the smell of pudding only
Not the halibut
And the dry chard burning
But smell of pudding in the house
Hiss bubble hiss bubble bubble
But there is no pudding
And no pie
If there were pie
And also pudding
And pudding
A kitchen
A bakery among the suburbs
If there were the smell of pudding only
Not the halibut
And the dry chard burning
But smell of pudding in the house
Hiss bubble hiss bubble bubble
But there is no pudding
Thou art not, Luchow’s, built to envious show ...
That was a way of saying it, not very satisfactory.
The truth is that one has certain resources, not
Very satisfactory either, but one’s best. They stay
One usually through the long campaigns, the courses,
The dire gravy, the fierce hollandaise, the stuffing.
Yes, but the sudden sweetmeat, the precipitate pâté . . .
Lord I am not worthy
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple seed.
The truth is that one has certain resources, not
Very satisfactory either, but one’s best. They stay
One usually through the long campaigns, the courses,
The dire gravy, the fierce hollandaise, the stuffing.
Yes, but the sudden sweetmeat, the precipitate pâté . . .
Lord I am not worthy
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple seed.
Between the appetite
And the surfeit
Falls the calorie chart
And the surfeit
Falls the calorie chart
We are the hollow men
Between the foretaste
And the aftertaste
Between the expectancy
And the succulency
Falls the calorie chart
And the aftertaste
Between the expectancy
And the succulency
Falls the calorie chart
We are NOT the stuffed men
Sing a song of sixpence, pocket full of rye,
Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie emdash;
Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie emdash;
This is the way the dinner ends
Not with dessert but a whimper.
Not with dessert but a whimper.
