Classic Poem

Myrtilla, I have seen you eat —
Have heard you drink, to be precise —
Your soup, and, notwithstanding, sweet,
The gurgitation wasn't nice,
I overlooked a tiny fault
Like that with just a grain of salt.

And, sweetest maid in all New York,
When all ungracefully you pierce
The toothsome oyster with your fork
I realize you're pretty fierce:
But such a feat, be't understood,
Nor Venus nor Diana could.

I've seen you hang, high in the air,
A stalk of fresh asparagus,
Guiding its succulence to where
It ought to go. I did not cuss.
You had it hot and vinaigrette,
Myrtilla, and I loved you yet.

Myrt, I have stood for a good deal,
As one will in this Cupid game,
But now I know I'll never feel
Toward you, dear Tillie, quite the same
Since I have seen you on the job
Of eating corn — corn on the cob.