Volume 158 — TO MY BUTTER RATION

Thou whom, when Saturday's expiring sun Informs me that another day is done And summons fire from the reflecting pane Of Griggs and Sons, where groceries obtain, I seek, not lightly nor in careless haste As men buy bloaters or anchovy paste, Who fling the cash down with abstracted air, Crying, "Two tins, please," or "I'll take the pair," But reverently and with concentred gaze Lest Griggs's varlet (drat his casual ways!), Intrigued with passing friend or canine strife, Leave half of thee adhering to the knife— My butter ration! If symbolic breath Can be presumed in one so close to death, It is decreed that thou, my heart's desire, Who scarcely art, must finally expire; Yea, they who hold thy fortunes in their hands, Base-truckling to the profiteer's commands, No more to my slim revenues will temper The cost of thee, but with a harsh "Sic semper Pauperibus" fling thee, heedless of my prayers, Into the fatted laps of war-time millionaires. No more when Phœbus bids the day be born And savoury odours greet the Sabbath morn, Calling to Jane to bring the bacon in, Shall I bespread thee, marvellously thin, But ah! how toothsome! while my offspring barge Into the cheap but uninspiring marge, While James, our youngest (spoilt), proceeds to cram His ample crop with plum and rhubarb jam. No more when twilight fades from tower and tree Shall I conceal what still remains of thee Lest that the housemaid or, perchance, the cat Should mischief thee, imponderable pat. Ah, mine no more! for lo! 'tis noised around How thou wilt soon cost seven bob a pound. As well demand thy weight in radium As probe my 'poverished poke for such a sum. Wherefore, farewell! No more, alas! thou'lt oil These joints that creak with unrewarded toil; No more thy heartsick votary's midmost riff Wilt lubricate, and, oh! (as Wordsworth says) the diff! Algol.