A tribute to William Wordsworth's The World Is Too Much with Us

We eat too much; Always and ever

Swallowing and gurgling we're stuffing our faces

Little we absorb that is worth shoving down our throat

We have given up on good food, a sordid doom

Those marinated oysters with lettuce bedding underneath

That cocky little pheasant, with stuffing innerneith

Its life spent, it awaits our claws

For this, for everything, we are out of mood

It moves us not.-OMG! I'd rather be

an Afghan, laying in a cave, unknown

So that I might, laying on a bed of straw
Have visions of 12 course dinners that would make me less woebegone
Have divinations of Alain Ducasse and Paul Bocuse
Or witness old and gone Keith Floyd jingle-jangle his spoon and fork