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An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Live without Dining

NOW, if you have an axe to grind, or if you mean to spout,

If your invite is to a spread, then you must count me out:

I do not like that dark-brown taste, I dread the thought of gout,

I’m restless at the gorgeous gorge that ostentation dares.

My friend must offer me pot-luck on wash-days unawares;

I like my feed when his menu with my own larder squares.