Do not go lentil into that good night,
Old hay should burn and rage beneath this clay;
Rage, rage against the cooking they call light.


Though wise cooks at their end know roughage is right,
Because their pots had stewed no okra they
Do not go lentil into that good night.


Good cooks, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their crisp leeks might have danced with a lardon a-sway,
Rage, rage against the cooking they call light.


Wild cooks who bought and crisped the bacon right,
And learn, too late, they let Pritkin have his say,
Do not go lentil into that good night.


Grave cooks, near death, who see the butter take flight
Blind eyes could blaze like backfat en flambée,
Rage, rage against the cooking they call light.


And you, my commis, there for me to smite,
Curse, bless me now with your sliced suet, I pray.
Do not go lentil into that good night.
Rage, rage against the cooking they call light.