But thou--although a myriad flocks may crop
By Sussex gorse or Cheviot's grassy top,
A myriad herds tumultuously snort
From Palos Verdes eastward to Del Norte,
Or where the fierce vaquero's bold bravado
Resounds about the Llano Estacado;
Though every abattoir works overtime
And every stall in Smithfield groans with prime
Cuts, from thy lips the ready lie falls pat,
How thou art sold clean out of this and that,
But will oblige me, just for old time's sake,
With half a shin bone or some hard flank steak;
Or (if with mutton I prefer to deck
My festive board) the scraggy end of neck.
And once, when goaded to a desperate stand,
I wrung a sirloin from thy grudging hand,
Did not thy boy, a cheeky little brute
With shifty eyes, mislay the thing _en route_,
Depositing at my address the bones
Intended for the dog of Mr. Jones?

I sometimes think that never runs so thin
The milk as when it leaves the milkman's tin;
That every link the sausageman prepares
Harbours some wandering Towser unawares.
And Binns, the baker (whom a murrain seize!),
Immune from fraud's accustomed penalties,
Sells me a stuff compound of string and lead,
And has the nerve to name the substance bread.
But deafer far to the voice of conscience grown