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I sing of the fellow who
serves me my food
and the way he dumps
cake on my pork.
Such finesse, it's a dream,
What an artist suprime,
Did he learn it at the
Waldorf or at the stork?
Not a surgeon can equel
his delicate touch.
As he sprinkles baked
beans on my pie.
With one quick hand,
my desert's in my soup.
How unerring,
how steady his eye.
Like your salad
with gravy?
He will fill up your
tray to the brim.
So three cheers and a bow,
for the maestro of chow,
for they named the word
"Mess" after him.
