Backward, turn backward, oh time, in thy flight, feed me on gruel again, just for tonight; I am so wearied of restaurant steaks, vitrified doughnuts and vulcanized cakes, oysters that sleep in a watery bath, butter as strong as Goliath of Gath; weary of paying for what I can't eat, chewing up rubber and calling it meat. Backward, turn backward, for weary I am! Give me a whack at my grandmother's jam; let me drink milk that has never been skimmed, let me eat butter whose hair has been trimmed; let me but once have an old-fashioned pie, then I'll be willing to curl up and die; I have been eating iron filings for years—is it a wonder I'm melting in tears?