In all the good Greek of Plato
I lack my roast and potato.
A better man was Aristotle,
Pulling steady on the bottle.
I dip my hat to cahucer,
Swilling soup from his saucer,
And to Master Shakespeare
Who wrote big on small beer.
The abstemious Wordsworth
Subsisted on a curd's-worth,
But a slick one was Tennyson
Putting gravy on his venison.
What these men had to eat and drink
Is what we say and what we think.
The influence of Milton
Came wry out of Stilton.
Sing a song for percy Shelley,
Drowned in pale lemon jelly,
And for precious John Keats,
Dripping blood of pickled beets.
Then there was poor Willie Blake,
He foundered on sweet cake.
God have mercy on the sinner
Who must write without dinner,
No gravy and no grub,
No pewter and no pub,
No belly and no bowels,
Only consonants and vowels.