At Mrs. Casey's hunger-killing shop
Whither I hie thrice daily for my stew,
I dream I'm Mr. Waldorf as I chew
My prunes or lay my Boston-baked on top.
Growley and sinkers, slum and mutton sop,
India-rubber jelly known as "glue,"
A soup-bone goulash with a spud or two,
Clatter below until I signal "Stop!"
There may be chefs in France or Albany
Can knock a poem from a wedge of pie;
But just give me a check on Mrs. C.,
For rapid-filling ballast, murmurs I.
Kings may prefer some tasty wads of hash,
But they don't feed at fifteen cents per crash!