1.  OAT CUISINE.

(Kaper and Jurman's "San Francisco")

It only takes a lone experiment

To turn a diet into merriment;

It seems incredible,

But one thing edible

Has now been certified at last as "health food":

Oat bran muffins

Lower cholesterol;

Who wouldn't pester all

Bakers for that?

Oat bran muffins–

They're water-soluble;

Wherefore, my voluble

Scat.

Other brans may help you to evacuate,

But you helped your heart with that oat snack you ate!

Oat bran muffins–

I love 'em lathered in,

Smothered and slathered in

Animal fat!

Pardon me, boy—

Is that the piccalilli chow-chow?

Toss it across,

And then the Worcestershire sauce.

Chili and chive en-

Liven

Piccalilli chow-chow,

Under a glaze

Of dietetic Bernaise.

You take a tablespoon of tarragon,

A teaspoon of soy

(Not enough to sicken, but

Sufficient to cloy);

Further to embellish,

Add some onion relish:

Any way you slice it, boy,

It's downright hellish.

Sprinkle on

Some cinnamon

And give it a stir;

Angostura bitters

And banana liqueur;

Soak it all in sherry;

Top it with a cherry:

Mm, mm!  Piccalilli cordon bleu.

Oh!  there's gonna be

A case of gastroenteritis,

After you eat

This indigestible treat.

Whaddaya know?

(Unless, of course, the human eye deceives.)

That piccalilli chow-chow

Gave my chow-chow the heaves!

You make me egg foo yong;

You make me ham and pickled tongue;

But, every time, I feel chagrin

To find that it is in-

Digestible.

The moment that you cook,

I feel the need to read a book.

It would be bliss to disappear

Until (let's say) next year.

You make pie

That tastes like a motorman's glove;

Cookies that taste like bird-doo

(Poop à la dove

Is a dish I love—

Like hell!)

You make me egg foo yong—

In my opinion, you ought to be hung;

For it's among

The most sickening hash ever slung!

And even if I starve to death,

I'm gonna murmur with my final breath:

Don't make me egg foo—

Please, dear, I beg you—

Don't make me egg foo yong!

(Loewe's "The Night They Invented Champagne")