Come, Damon, since again we've met

We'll feast right royally to-night,

The groaning table shall be set

With every seasonable delight!

The luscious bivalve ... I forgot,

The oyster is an arch-deceiver,

And makes its eater's certain lot

A bad attack of typhoid fever.

With soup, then, be it thick or clear,

The banquet fitly may commence—

Alas, on second thoughts, I fear

With soup as well we must dispense.

The doctors urge that, in effect,

Soup simply kills the thoughtless glutton.

It's full of germs. I recollect

They say the same of beef and mutton.

Yes, each variety of meat,

As you remark, is much the same,

And we're forbidden now to eat

Fish, oysters, poultry, joint or game.

But though a Nemesis each brings,

The punishment, the doctors tell, is

As nothing to the awful things

Awaiting all who toy with jellies.

"Cheese—that is not condemned with these

Yet ample evidence we find

To make us, Damon, look on cheese

As simply poison to mankind;

While those who may desire to pass

Immediately o'er Charon's ferry,

Have but to take a daily glass

Of claret, hock, champagne or sherry.

And therefore, Damon, you and I,

Who fain would live a year at least,

Reluctantly must modify

The scope of our projected feast;

A charcoal biscuit we will share,

Water (distilled, of course,) we'll swallow,

Since this appears the only fare

On which destruction will not follow!