Places Where Mortals Dine.

The case, too, was urgent, for there stood a sinner,     Whose fate hung on chance--a chance for his dinner;     A chance for all mortals, with truth I assert,     Who eat where his chance was, to counteract fate,     "To eat during life each a peck of pure dirt"     By eating at once the whole peck from one plate.     For true when I think of the places we eat at,     Or rather the places by hunger when driven     We rush in and swallow our bread and our meat at,     A bushel good measure in life will be given     To those who are living a "boarding-house life,"     Or those who are driven by fortune to journey,     And eat when we must with so dirty a knife,     I wish't could be done by the power of attorney;     Or where you must eat in a place called "saloon;"     Or "coffee-house" synonym of whisky and rum;     (I wish all the breed were sent off to the moon,     And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;)     Or where "Restauration" hangs out for sign,     At bar-room or cellar or dirty back room,     Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine,     And table cloths look as though washed with a broom;     Where knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves,     And plates needing polish, with coat tails are cleaned;     Where priests dine with harlots, and judges with thieves,     And mayors with villains his worship has screened.