THE DELICATESSEN SHOP
You must have noticed, on a Sunday night,
The line of husbands, forming on the right, ...
A bent old fogey, and a spatted fop
Are rubbing shoulders in the crowded shop
Where lurid signs proclaim a pale green tea
Or shriek in praise of chicken fricassee.
Furtively they take their places in line
And meditate the where-withall to dine ...
Then whisper it quite deprecatingly,
And steal away as humble as can be!