I The Denial of The Bread
Dieting is cruelest to the mouth, feeding
Ryebread spread with a light hand, mixing
Museli and desire, contending
Dull foods with weight gain
Winter kept us warm, jogging
Girth in disdainful shorts, hogging
A little life with dried potatoes.
Someone surprised us coming over the Starnbergersee
With a snigger plain we puffed into the colonnade
And went on in sweatbands into the Hofgarten
And drank decaffinated brews and held off waiters
"Nein, Nein, Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte, echt dieting"
And when we were chilblained sking at the Arch-Duke's
My Croissants were eaten out of sight in a shed
And I was lightened. He said Marie,
Marie, you're dieting. And down the Hatch,
In the mountains there you can feed.
I eat much of the night and go straight for the larder.
What are the roots that lunch consists of now?
Out of this rosy stomach! Inner man!
You can nor stay, nor gust, for you can only home
In heaps of breakfast crockery or shreaded wheat.
And the dietry gives no succour, the cricket no relief,
And the dead ground no help to the bowling. Only
There is a salad under this red crock
(Come in to order salad of this fine crop)
And I will show you something different from either
Your salad at evening skillfully blended
Or your salad next morning curled at the edges
I will show you fear in salads and such.
Frisch weht der cabbage
Die Lettuce zu
Mein Irisch Stew
Wo weilest du?
You gave me wholemeal first a year ago;
They called me the wholemeal girl.
- Yet when we came back, ate from the wholemeal cook book
Your charms fulsome, you hair in a net. I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Hungry nor fed, and I new nothing
Cooking into a healthu diet, the balance
Ou est la chef du ma tante
Madame Sausages famous cheese volovants
Had a bad habit, wuld never digest
Is grown to be the widest woman in Europe
With a wicked peck of tarts. Here, said she
Is your dessert the crowned Venician baaking
(Those are glaice cherries that coat its spires, look!)
Here is berry fondue, the layering of the chocs
The Ladle of the set soup rations.
Here is the man with the free loaves, here the cheese wheel,
And here is the deep-fry merchant and his cart
Which is black, holds something that they curry round the back
That my Doctor has forbidden me. I do not feed
The Hungry Man for love but money.
I seek rolls from people, folding dough in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs Equitone,
Tell her I drink the Horlicks up myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Under the brown fog of a winsor sauce
A crust floured in a loaded wedge so mealy.
I had notthought death had underdone such pastry,
Pies, flaky,and shrtcrust were retailed
And each man licked his lips, beef for his meat.
Fed up, with skill, and downing ciders sweet,
Meanwhile some merry goodwife minced their beef
With a dead sound upon a chopping board of pine.
There I saw one I knew and stopped him: crying "Venison!"
You who ate with me in the shops at Mylae!
Those crops you planted last year in your garden
Have Brussels come to sprout, spinach to bloom this year?
Oh keep the dog from hence, the gardeners bane
Or with his nails he'll dig them up again!
You! Hypocrite Dieter, my cordon bleu, my lunch.
[Old parody poem written in my second year at University.
This covers the first part.]