Just Folks

Midnight in the Pantry

          You can boast your round of pleasures, praise the sound of popping corks,
          Where the orchestra is playing to the rattle of the forks;
          And your after-opera dinner you may think superbly fine,
          But that can't compare, I'm certain, to the joy that's always mine
          When I reach my little dwelling—source, of all sincere delight—
          And I prowl around the pantry in the waning hours of night.

          When my business, or my pleasure, has detained me until late,
          And it's midnight, say, or after, when I reach my own estate,
          Though I'm weary with my toiling I don't hustle up to bed,
          For the inner man is hungry and he's anxious to be fed;
          Then I feel a thrill of glory from my head down to my feet
          As I prowl around the pantry after something good to eat.

          Oft I hear a call above me: "Goodness gracious, come to bed!"
          And I know that I've disturbed her by my overeager tread,
          But I've found a glass of jelly and some bread and butter, too,
          And a bit of cold fried chicken and I answer: "When I'm through!"
          Oh, there's no cafe that better serves my precious appetite
          Than the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night.

          You may boast your shining silver, and the linen and the flowers,
          And the music and the laughter and the lights that hang in showers;
          You may have your cafe table with its brilliant array,
          But it doesn't charm yours truly when I'm on my homeward way;
          For a greater joy awaits me, as I hunger for a bite—
          Just the joy of pantry-prowling in the middle of the night.