I wish't could be done by the power of attorney;
Or where you must eat in a place called "saloon;"
Or "coffee-house" synonym of whisky and rum;
(I wish all the breed were sent off to the moon,
And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;)
Or where "Restauration" hangs out for sign,
At bar-room or cellar or dirty back room,
Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine,
And table cloths look as though washed with a broom;
Where knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves,
And plates needing polish, with coat tails are cleaned;
Where priests dine with harlots, and judges with thieves,
And mayors with villains his worship has screened.

[ILLUSTRATION: "WHERE KNIVES WAITERS SPIT ON AND WIPE ON THEIR
SLEEVES, AND PLATES NEEDING POLISH, WITH COAT TAILS ARE CLEANED."]



Things That Mortals Eat There.


And what do you eat in the mess there compounded?
For roast beef, the gravy the soap-man should claim--
The soup some odd things might turn up if sounded,
And other "made-dishes" might turn up the same.

Decoctions that puzzle your chemical skill,
You get if you call either coffee or tea;
And milk that is made with and tastes of the swill,