THE LAMENT OF THE CULINARY ARTIST.
lam not glad! lam not proud! Altho I ought to be. My last souffle has caught the crowd. Immortalising me.
My bisques and biscuits are the rage, My pates take the cake; And throngs from youth to oldest age Walk miles to soe me bake.
My salads are pronounced a dream; My terrapin divine, When o'er that dainty, cooked in cream I pour the tawny wine.
The daily papers pay me twice For recipes I pen; The very highest market price They give the greatest men.
Two chefs of fame have used my name Their dishes to enhance; The one in England, deviled game, And one, a stew, in France.
lam not proud! lam not glad! Altho I ought to be. For something makes me dull and sad More so than black-boiled tea.
It is not love. My virgin heart Allegiance knows alone To modern culinary art— Especially my own.
Nor is it conscience. In ten weeks Once only have I erred It was for onions, using leeks In currying a bird.
It is not sickness. For my skill Doth own a doctor's spell. My peptonci soup restores the ill And makes them strong and well.
it Is —but let me calm my Ire And find perchance relief — It is a violent desire For cabbage and corned beef.
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Bibliographic details
Cromwell Argus, Volume LX, Issue 3111, 12 May 1930, Page 2
Word Count
224THE LAMENT OF THE CULINARY ARTIST. Cromwell Argus, Volume LX, Issue 3111, 12 May 1930, Page 2
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