Madame Eulalie’s Rare Plums

GIVE us no more.
No ostriches are we,
But men with human organs, just like you.
If you must entertain us, we could do
With a dry rusk and a weak cup of tea.
Give us no more.

Give us no more.
In error you suppose
Our Little Maries to be made of teak.
We like a banquet. But six times a week . . .
Let's stop while we can still descry our toes.
Give us no more.

Give us no more.
Please stop that cheery shout,
“Premier, old man, another glass of fizz?”
We like it, mark you: but the trouble is
We have a certain tendency to gout.
Give us no more.

Give us no more.
We yearn not to eclipse
J Trundley, who in Peckham’s pleasant vale
At twenty stone or so has turned the scale.
Remove the festive beaker from our lips.
Give us no more.

Give us no more.
Let us, we beg, be freed
From roast and boiled, from soups both thick and clear.
The Stomach Tax is proving too severe.
Protection, not Free Food, is what we need.
Give us no more.