To hear those who would tell us what
Is fit to eat, most things are not.
What seems so innocent and placid
Will turn itself in time to acid.
The foods I like will put me under,
Or make me , in the end, rotunder.
To me, life has a certain lack
When I must down my coffee black,
And can’t have this and can’t have that,
And run from every automat.
But while the diet may seem dull, sir,
It rather beats a stomach ulcer,
So pooh the steak, ignore the roast-
I’m having one soft egg on toast.
by Ray Romine Sunday, July 16, 1950
