Succotash

I sit before my desk each day,

     Amidst the city’s pomp and show;

In spite of all, my thoughts will stray

     To scenes I loved long, long ago.

My mind returns to boyhood scenes,

     To cattle carts, and whip and lash;

To pumpkin pie and corn and beans,

     And best of all, to succotash.

I go down to the restaurant,

     With all its life, so free from care;

I do not see a thing I want,

     Upon its stately bill of fare.

Because this very time of year

      I’m tired of roasts and fries and hash;

I yearn for country atmosphere,

     And mother’s home-made succotash.

Let poets sing of quail on toast,

     And all the dainties of the see;

Let epicures rave over roasts,

     They cannot get a rise from me.

Of course I like good things to eat,

     And do not fear to spend my cash;

I own that city life’s a treat,

     But O, I want some succotash!

Sept. 20, ‘09