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In every nook beneath his bristly skin, 

 You'll find some tender tit-bit enug packed in ; 

 A victualling Cyclopedia, all complete ; 

 A restorator, walking on four feet ; 

 Be it, in short, to boil, broil, fry or roast, 

 As we've once said, no animal can boast 

 So many good things packed away inside, 

 As Pig has got rolled up within his hide. 

 The roasted tail, so juicy, rich and sweet. 

 There's nothing better — save perhaps the feet; 

 Souse, fried in meal, or broiled, or cold and pickled ; 

 Has not the very thought your palates tickled? 

 Fried ham and eggs — who has not felt a thrill 

 Of pure delight his very being fill, 

 To find his loving wife has undertaken 

 To furnish for his breakfast eggs and bacon ? 

 To find his nostrils with rich fragrance filled, 

 From mingled ham and eggs and toast distilled, 

 While clouds of incense from the coffee-pot, 

 Shining like silver, free from stain or spot, 

 Pervades all with the aromatic flavor 

 Of unadulterated best Old Java ! 

 Spare-ribs, with fat, in little channels streaming 

 Down their browned sides, with savory fragrance steaming, 

 At once so tempting and exhilarating 

 To all who sit around the table, waiting 

 For him who 's saying with a solemn face, 

 A seemingly interminable grace — 

 That each one finds it in his heart to say, 

 " Please stop and say the rest another day" — 

 The tender roaster, seized in earliest youth, 

 In days of innocence and joy and truth, 

 When life's enjoyment is perhaps completest — 

 And too, alas for him, his flesh is sweetest ; — 

 But most to thee, oh, Sausage ! would we pay 

 The choicest, highest honors of to-day ; 

 Although we're well aware some light suspicion, 

 (Yile, slanderous rumors, not worth repetition,) 

 Has somewhat dimmed the brightness of thy fame, 

 By being coupled with thy honored name. 

 No doubt that sausages are sometimes made 

 Without, oh. Pig, from thee the slightest aid ; 

 No doubt, in cities, sausages are filled 



