The Clean Platter

 THE CLEAN PLATTER

by Ogden Nash

Some singers sing of ladies’ eyes,

And some of ladies’ lips,

Refined ones praise their ladylike ways

And coarse ones hymn their hips.

The Oxford Book of English Verse

Is lush with lyrics tender;

A poet, I guess, is more or less

Preoccupied with gender.

Yet I, though custom call me crude,

Prefer to sing in praise of food.

Food,

Yes, food,

Just any old kind of food.

Pooh for the cook,

And pooh for the price!

Some of it’s nicer but all of it’s nice.

Pheasant is pleasant, of course,

And terrapin, too, is tasty,

Lobster I freely endorse,

In pâté or patty or pasty.

But there’s nothing the matter with butter,

And nothing the matter with jam,

And the warmest of greetings I utter

To the ham and the yam and the clam.

For they’re food,

All food,

And I think very highly of food.

Though I’m broody at times

When bothered by rhymes,

I brood

On food.

Some painters paint the sapphire sea,

And some the gathering storm.

Others portray young lambs at play,

But most, the female form.

‘Twas trite in that primeval dawn

When painting got its start,

That a lady with her garments on

Is Life, but is she Art?

By undraped nymphs

I am not wooed;

I’d rather painters painted food.

Food,

Just food,

Just any old kind of food.

Let it be sour

Or let it be sweet,

As long as you’re sure it is something to eat.

Go purloin a sirloin, my pet,

If you’d win a devotion incredible;

And asparagus tips vinaigrette,

Or anything else that is edible.

Bring salad or sausage or scrapple,

A berry or even a beet.

Bring an oyster, an egg, or an apple,

As long as it’s something to eat.

If it’s food,

It’s food;

Never mind what kind of food.

When I ponder my mind

I consistently find

It is glued

On food.