from A Dearth of Prose

Catsup, I sing thy praise!
When the Meditteranean hands
draw o'er the straggling load,
all gasping and glass-eyed,
and the monger wearies his skilful
knife and coarse hands;
and the wed businessman dons
matador red for the chicks,
and the babe-bearing mother
long toils with fish and meal:
the victuals served.
Neptune's delicate fare
fairer yet on a crimson bed:
the babes rejoice.

When the dainty vine
broods darker by the sun,
bade well by ancient hands,
and the greening leaf
last bears the meagre plum,
the workman sings.
Out come the commendations
premature of the year's crop,
and hefty premonition
of years to come.
But morn wakes the worm voracious,
and the crop is ruined.
Weary hands strip the vine bare;
cart its produce off to
some foreign state.
By the sound of a thousand drums
the crop evades the salad bowl
in a branded bottle,
and graces the table
with a heavy crimson regal.

Wed the two, the land and sea,
and be it known that as suffice
a fish to breathe out on the land;
a vine to grow under the sea.

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