After Emerson

Mutton

IF the fat butcher thinks he slays,
Or he—the mutton—thinks he’s slain,
Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says—
“I’ll come, and cut and come again.”

To hungry wolves that on him leer
Mutton is cheap, and sheep the same,
No famished god would at him sneer—
To famine, chops are more than fame.

Who hiss at him, him but assures
That they are geese, but wanting wings—
Your coat is his whose life is yours,
And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.

Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,
And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,
Come taste, ye lovers of the good—
Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.

Anonymous.