|
I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented, Respectable, much in demand, well fed With mine own larder’s dainties,— where, indeed, Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o’ the top, Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests Which my recondite recipe invests With cold conglomerate tidbits — ah, the bill! (You say,) but given it were mine to fill My chests, the case so put were yours, we’ll say, (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day,) And you’ve an eye to luxuries, what harm In smoothing down your palate with the charm Yourself concocted? There we issue take; And see! as thus across the rim I break This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; But that’s my secret. Find me such a man As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat From his own giblets’ oil, an Ararat Uplift o’er water, sucking rosy draughts From Noah’s vineyard, —… crisp, enticing wafts Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense Somewhat abate the fear of old events, Qualms to the stomach,— I, you see, am slow Unnecessary duties to forgo,— You understand? A venison haunch, haut goût, Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew, And sprigs of anise, might one’s teeth provoke To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke Just as it suits,— my liking, I confess, More to receive, and to partake no less, Still more obese, while through thick adipose Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes Far-off, dim-conscious, at the body’s verge, Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat. |