WHEN summer days speed up so fast That August bumps September, You need a breakfast that will last, And, 'less I disremember, There's nothing 'round the morning hour With which a man can grapple Like good salt pork, and plenty o'nt, Enriched with good fried apple. It doesn't fade away so soon Your stomach squirms with wonder; A saint can work right up to noon And not be "sawn asunder"; It beats them package foods a mile— That top-shelf ten-cent scrapple— Jest hand me good old fried salt pork Enriched with good fried apple. Good solid pork, a-salted down 'Way back there last November, That sputters sweet and spatters brown, And, 'less I disremember, Them apples by the garden gate That had a reddish dapple— Yes; that's the kind of pork I mean, And that's the kind of apple. Jest wipe 'em where your hand is flat, And slice 'em thin and slanting, And tip 'em in the spider fat The while it's hot and panting; Say; that's the kind of morning dish With which the soul can grapple— Good sweet salt pork, and plenty o'nt, Enriched with good fried apple. A meal that bids the spirit sing— The dish that saves September; And yet there's jest one other thing, And, 'less I disremember, A good cream gravy starts the stuff A-sliding past your thrapple, And makes that pork celestial pig And glorifies that apple. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CORPORATE ENTITY by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH SONNET: 13. TO MR. H. LAWES, ON HIS AIRS by JOHN MILTON THE COMING OF SPRING by NORA PERRY ST. MARTIN'S WALL by ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUERSPERG MERCHANTS FROM CATHAY by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |