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O Julia, Julia, cook and nifty wench, Whose unsurpassed quenelles and hot souffles, Whose English, Norse, and German, and whose French, Are all beyond my piteous powers to praise- Whose sweetly rounded bottom and whose legs Whose gracious face, whose nature temperate, Are only equalled by her scrambled eggs: Accept from me, your ever-loving mate, This acclamation shaped in fourteen lines Whose inner truth belies its outer sight; For never were there foods, nor were there wines Whose flavor equals yours for sheer delight. O luscious dish! O gustatory pleasure! You satisfy my taste buds beyond measure. |