The toothsome oyster with your fork
I realize you're pretty fierce;
But such a feat, be't understood,
Nor Venus nor Diana could.

I've seen you hang, high in the air,
A stalk of fresh asparagus,
Guiding its succulence to where
It ought to go. I did not cuss.
You had it hot and vinaigrette,
Myrtilla, and I loved you yet.

Myrt, I have stood for a good deal,
As one will in this Cupid game,
But now I know I'll never feel
Toward you, dear Tillie, quite the same
Since I have seen you on the job
Of eating corn--corn on the cob.



She Is Not Fair


"She is not fair to outward view";
No beauty hers of form or face
She hath no witchery, 'tis true,
No grace.

Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind,