O CAPON! my Capon! Your adipose drip is done;
The fat has feather’d oven rack, the meal we sought is won;
The port is near, a glass my dear, the people all expecting,
While follow eyes the ready heel, the baguette you are bearing:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the sausage newly red,
Where on the block my Capon lies,
Cloaked in egg and bread.

O Capon! my Capon! Wings up with taste and smells;
Wings up—for you the napkin flung—for you the mushroom gills;
For you bouquets of scotch had neat—for you the hoards a-crowding;
For you they call, the hungering mass, their eager bellies burning;
Here Capon! No feathers!
Plucked all from your head;
It is some dream that on the block
You’re clothed in egg and bread.

My Capon was some labor, the wings I trussed and still;
its beauty lies not here to warm, not standing, no, to fill;
The bellies waiting for to crowd, their stuffing all but done;
From nose to tail, the hostess cooked, and admiration won;
Exult, O snores, and belch, O lungs!
As we, with heavy tread,
Clear off the block where Capon lay
To slumber, filled with bread.