Love Gustatory

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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.

© Franklin Pierce Adams