O CAPON! my Capon! Your adipose drip is done; The fat has
feather’d oven rack, the meal we sought is won; The port is
near, a glass my dear, the people all expecting, While follow
eyes the ready heel, the baguette you are bearing: But O heart!
heart! heart! O the sausage newly red, Where on the block my
Capon lies, Cloaked in egg and bread.  O Capon! my Capon! Wings
up with taste and smells; Wings up—for you the napkin flung—for
you the mushroom gills; For you bouquets of scotch had neat—for
you the hoards a-crowding; For you they call, the hungering
mass, their eager bellies burning; Here Capon! No feathers!
Plucked all from your head; It is some dream that on the block
You’re clothed in egg and bread.  My Capon was some labor, the
wings I trussed and still; its beauty lies not here to warm, not
standing, no, to fill; The bellies waiting for to crowd, their
stuffing all but done; From nose to tail, the hostess cooked,
and admiration won; Exult, O snores, and belch, O lungs! As we,
with heavy tread, Clear off