 The Whale of the Waiter by Marcus Clarke, Fred Ford, Libberbox.org, by ambysweet13. All day long at Scots or Menses, I await the gorging crowd, panting, penned within a pantry with the blow flies humming loud, there at seven in the morning. Do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash? And the wary, handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom had been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast gone resounding, bids the festive meal begin, and with appetites like demons, come the gentle public in. Toasted butter, eggs and coffee, waiter mutton cops her four, flatheads hand beef, where's the mustard, stick an onion, shut the door! Here sits Bandy Coot, the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbor, Cornstock, from the Upper Murray, who with brandy nose and purple damn with blue lips crackled and dry, an incipient delirium shoves the egg spoon in his eye. Floater pays some tender steaks, their hair confounding, where's my chop? Waiter, yes sir, waiter, yes sir, running till and fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, and by trolls, the gorgeous poor, gobbling, crunching, swelling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ill for me, drum, where's my stick and where's my hat? Oxtail soup, I asked for curry, cold boiled beef and cut as fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage, white-nosed beans, bring me some pork. Soup, sir, yes, you grinning idiot, can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter, beg your pardon, curse you, have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no, I call for beer of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes sir, waiter, here, sir, dim, sir, the stick is raw. Thus amid this hideous babel, do I live a long day? While my memory is going and my hair is turning gray, all my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the yard bend at last. For a night from fitful slumbers, I awaken with a start, murmuring of stick and onions, babbling of apple tart, wall to me, the poet's cloudland, a gigantic kitchen seams, and those mislead table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, ye sages tell me? Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but once miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans? And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfet hair after where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual troughs? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor step on spirit-barred coheal? Can the great Alexis Sawyer really say Swayay Tranquil? Or must I bring spirit-beast-stake-grilled-in-spirit-regions-hotter for the spirit delegation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I, in a spirit kitchen, hear the spirit-blow-fies-humming, calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual-coming-shell? But this is idle chatter. I have got my work to do. Waiter, yes, sir! Wake up stupid-willed calves feet for number two! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Whale of the Waiter By Marcus Clark Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk All day long, at Scots or Menzies, I await the gorging crowd, panting, penned within a pantry, with the blow-flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning, do I count my daily cash? While the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash, and the weary, handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast-gong resounding bids the festive meal begin, and with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, Waiter, mutton-cups for four. Flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard, steak and onions? Shut the door! Here sits Bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbor. Cornstalk from the upper Murray, who with brandy nose and purpled, and with blue lips cracked and dry, in incipient delirium shoves the egg-spoon in his eye. Blotter-paste, some tender steak, sir? Here confound you, where's my chop? Waiter, yes, sir? Waiter, yes, sir? Running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorgers pour, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale for me, John, where's my stick and where's my hat? Ox-stall soup, I asked for curry, cold-boiled beef and cut it fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage, what, no beans? Bring me some pork. Soup, sir? Yes, you grinning idiot, can I eat it with a fork? Take care, Waiter, beg your pardon. Curse you, have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now, then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no, I called for beer, of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes, sir? Waiter, here, sir? Damn, sir, this steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babble, do I live the live long day, while my memory is going and my hair is turning gray. All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yarra Bend at last. For at night, from fitful slumbers, I awaken with a start murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple tart, while to me, the poet's cloudland, a gigantic kitchen seams, and those mislaid table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, ye sages tell me? Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans? And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor sup on spirit-reared cow-heel? Can the great Alexis Swayay really say Swayay Tromquil? Or must I bring spirit-beef-steak grilled in spirit-regions hotter for the spirit-delectation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I, in a spirit kitchen, hear the spirit-blowflies humming, calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming shall? But this is idle chatter. I have got my work to do. Waiter! Yes, sir? Wake up, stupid! Boiled calves feet for number two! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Wheel of the Waiter by Marcus Clarke. Read for LibberVox.org by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in Coneyhampton, Northern Ireland. All day long, at Scots or Menzies, I await the gorging crowd, panting penned within a pantry with the blue-flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for Souda and a dash. And the weary, handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast gong, resounding bids the festive meal begin, and with appetites like daemons come the gentle public inn. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, waiter, mutton-cops for four. Flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard? Steak and onions shut the door. Here sits Bandicoot, the broker eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbour, cornstalk from the upper Murray, who with brandy nose and purpled, and with blue lips cracked and dry, in incipient delirium shoves the egg-spoon in his eye. Bluter-paste, some tender steak, sir, here confines you where's my chop? Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis. In by shoals, the gorgers pour, gobbling, crunching, swelling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale from me, John, where's my stick, and where's my hat? Oxtail soup, I asked for curry. Cold-boiled beef, I cut it fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage. What, no beans, bring me some pork? Soup, sir, yes. You grinning idiot, can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter, beg your pardon. Curse you, have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now, then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no, I called for beer. Of all the fills I ever saw. Waiter, yes sir, waiter, here, sir. Damn, sir, this steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babble, do I live the live long day. While my memory is going, and my hair is turning grey. All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yara Bend at last. For at night from fitful slumbers I awaken with a start, murmuring of steak and onions babbling of apple tart. While to me the poets cloud-land a gigantic kitchen seams, and those mislead table napkins hunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, ye sages tell me? Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but once miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans? And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter, where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Nailor sup with spirit-reared cow heal? Can the great Alexis Sawyer really say, So ease, tranquille? Or must I bring spirit, beefsteak, grilled in spirit, region's hotter, for the spirit-delectation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I in a spirit kitchen hear the spirit-blueflies humming, calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming? Shall, but this is idle chatter. I have got my work to do. Waiter, yes, or wake up, stupid, boiled calves feet for number two. And of palm this recording is in the public demand. The Whale of the Waiter by Marcus Clarke. Read for LibriVox.org by Garfield De Souza. All day long at Scott's or Menzies, I await the gorging crowd, panting, bend within the pantry with the blow-flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveller calls for soda and a dash. And the very handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast-cong resounding bids the festive meal begin. And with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, waiter, mutton cops for four, flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard, steak and onions, shut the door. Your sits bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbour, corn stock from the upper moray. Who, with brandy nose and purple, and with blue lips cracked and dry, in incipient delirium shows the egg spoon in his eye. Bloater-paste, some tender steak, sir? Yeah, confound you, where's my chop? Waiter, yes, sir. Waiter, yes, sir. Running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis. In by shoals the gorges pour, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale for me, John. Where's my steak? And where's my hat? Oxtail soup. I asked for curry, cold boil beef and cut it fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage. What? No beans? Bring me some pork. Soup, sir? Yes, you grinning idiot. Can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter. Beg your pardon. Curse you, have your two left legs. I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no. I called for beer of all the foals I ever saw. Waiter, yes, sir. Waiter, yes, sir. Dammit, sir. This steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babel, do I live the live long day. While my memory is going and my hair is turning gray. All my soul is slowly melting. All my brain is softening fast. And I know that I'll be taken to the Yara Bend at last. For at night, from fitful slumbers, I awaken with a start. Murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple tart. While to me the poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems. And those mislabel napkins haunt me, even in my dreams. Is this right? Ye sages tell me. Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans? And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed year after where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor suck on spirit red cowheel? Can the great Alexis Soyer really say Soyer tranquille? Or must I bring spirit beef steak grilled in spirit regions hotter for the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I, in a spirit kitchen year, the spirit blow flies humming calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming shall? But this is idle chatter. I've got my work to do. Waiter, yes sir. Wake up, stupid. Boil cow's feet for number two. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. All day long at Scots or Menzies I await the gorging crowd, panting penned within a pantry with the blow flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash. All the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash, and the weary handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down. Who, all night in savage freedom, have been knocking round the town? Soon the breakfast gong, resounding bids the festive meal begin. And with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee. Waiter, mutton-cops for four. Flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard? Steak and onions, shut the door. Here sits Bandicoot, the broker, eating in the desperate hurry. Scowling at his left-hand neighbor, corn-stock from the Upper Murray. Who, with brandy nose and purpled, and with blue eyes cracked and dry, in incipient delirium shoves the egg-spoon in his eye. Blue terpaste, some tender steak, sir. Here, confound you, where's my chop? Waiter, yes, sir. Waiter, yes, sir. Running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorgers pour. Gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching. Ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale for me, John. Where's my stick? And where's my hat? Oxtail soup. I asked for curry. Cold-boiled beef, and cut it fat. Irish stew. Some pickled cabbage. What, no beans? Bring me some pork. Soup, sir? Yes. You gritting idiot. Can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter. Beg your pardon. Curse you, have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no, I called for beer, of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter! Yes, sir. Waiter! Here, sir. Damn, sir, this steak is raw. Thus admit this hideous babble. Do I live the live long day? While my memory is going, and my hair is turning gray, all my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the aura bendelast. For at night, from fitful slumbers, I awaken with a start, murmuring of steak and onions, a babbling of apple tart. While to me the poet's cloud-land, a gigantic kitchen seams, and those mislabeled table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, he sages tell me, does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying, but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans, and has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no one fed hereafter, for the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor sup on spirit-reared cow-heel? Can the great Alexis Sawyer really say Sawyer's tranquille? Where must I bring spirit-beast-steak, grilled in spirit-regions hotter, for the spirit-delicitation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I, in a spirit kitchen, hear the spirit-blow-flies humming, calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming? Shall, but this is idle chatter. I have got my work to do. Waiter! Yes, sir. Wake up, stupid. Boil calves, feet for number two. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. All day long, at Scots or Menzies, I await the gorging crowd, panting, penned within a pantry with the blow-flies humming loud. There, at seven in the morning, do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash. And the weary, handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who, all night in savage freedom, have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast gong resounding bids the festive meal begin, and, with appetites like demons, come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, waiter, mutton chops for four. Flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard, steak and onions? Shut the door. Here sits Bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbour, cornstalk from the upper Murray, who, with brandy nose and purpled, and with blue lips cracked and dry, an incipient delirium shoves the egg-spoon in his eye. Blot a paste, some tender steak, sir? Here confound you, where's my chop? Waiter, yes sir, waiter, yes sir, running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorgeous poor, gobbling, crunching, swilly munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale for me, John, where's my stick and where's my hat? Oxtail soup, I asked for curry, cold-boiled beef and cut it fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage. What, no beans? Bring me some pork. Soup, sir? Yes, you're grinning idiot, can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter, beg your pardon. Cush you, have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no, I called for beer, of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes sir, waiter! Here, sir, damn, sir, this steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babel do I live the live long day, while my memory is going and my hair is turning gray. All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yarra Bend at last. For at night, from fitful slumbers, I awaken with a start, murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple tart. While to me the poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems, and those mislaid table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, ye sages, tell me? Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans, and has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter, where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor sup on spirit-reared cow-heel? Can the great Alexis Sawyer really say Sawyer's tranquil? Or must I bring spirit beefsteak grilled in spirit regions hotter for the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I in a spirit kitchen hear the spirit blowfly's humming, calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming? Shall... but this is idle chatter. I have got my work to do. Waiter! Yes, sir. Wake up, stupid, boiled calf's feet for number two. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Whale of the Waiter by Marcus Clark read for LibriVox by Jane DeSousa. All day long, at Scots or Menzies, I await the gorging crowd, panting penned within a pantry and with the blowflies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash. And the weary handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who, all night, in savage freedom, have been knocking around the town. Soon the breakfast gong resounding bids the festive meal begin, and with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Host and butter, eggs and coffee, waiter, mutton coughs for four. Flatheads, ham, beef, where is the mustard? Steak and onions shut the door. Here sits Bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-handed neighbor, Cornstock, from the Upper Murray, who with brandy nose and purpled and fur blue lips, cracked and dry, an incipient delirium shoves the egg's bewn in his eye. Bloater paste, some tender steak, sir? Here, confound you, where's my chop? Then at waiter, yes, sir, waiter, yes, sir, running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearing crisis, in by shoals the gorgeous poor, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ill for me, John, where's my stick and where's my hat? Oxtail soup, I asked for curry, cold boiled beef and cut it fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage, what, no beans, bring me some pork? Soup, sir? Yes, you grinning idiot. Can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter, beg your pardon. Curse you, you have two left legs. I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, I called for beer, all of the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes, sir, waiter, here, sir. Demi, sir, the steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babble, do I live the live long day? While my memory is going and my hair is turning gray. All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast. And I know that I'll be taken to the Yarra Bend at last. For at night from fitful sunbirds, I awaken with a start. Murmuring of staked onions, babbling of apple tart. While to me the poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems, and those mislaced table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right? Ye sages tell me, does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but once miserable meats? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans? And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor stuff on spirit-reared cow peel? Can the great Alexis Sawyer really say Sawyer's Tranquil? Or must I bring spirit beef steak grilled in spirit regions hotter? For the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter. Shall I, in a spirit kitchen, hear the blow-fies humming? Calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual humming? Shall, but this is idle chatter. Have I got my work to do? Waiter, yes, sir, wake up, stupid. Boiled cow's feet for number two. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Whale of the Waiter by Marcus Clark. Read for LibriVox.org by Jean-Vidai. All day long, at Scots or Menzies, I await the gorging crowd. Panting penned within a pantry with the blow-flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash. And the weary handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast gong resounding bids the festive meal begin, and with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter. Eggs in coffee. Waiter, mutton cops for four. Flatheads. Ham. Beef. Where's the mustard? Steak and onions. Shut the door. Here sits Bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbour, Cornstock from the Upper Murray, who, with brandy nose and purpled, and with blue lips cracked and dry, in incipient delirium, shoves the egg spoon in his eye. Blider paste. Some tender steak, sir? Here, confound you, where's my chop? Waiter. Yes, sir. Waiter. Yes, sir. Running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorges pour, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter. Ale for me, John. Where's my stick? And where's my hat? Oxtail soup. I asked for curry, cold-boiled beef, and cut it fat. Irish stew. Some pickled cabbage. What, no beans? Bring me some pork. Soup, sir? Yes, you grinning idiot. Can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter. I beg your pardon. Curse you, have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry. No, I call for beer. Of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter. Yes, sir. Waiter. Here, sir. Damn me, sir. This steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babel do I live the live long day. While my memory is going and my hair is turning gray, all my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yarra Bend at last. For at night from fitful slumbers I awaken with a start, murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple tart. While to me the poet's cloudland are gigantic kitchen seams, and those mislaid table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, ye sages tell me? Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans? And has man but been created to demolish pork and grains? Is there no unfed hereafter with a round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor sup on spirit-reared cowheel? Can the great Alexis Soyee really say Soyee tranquille? Or must I bring spirit beefsteak grilled in spirit region's horror for the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I in a spirit kitchen hear the spirit blow flies humming? Calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming? Shall. But this is idle chatter I have got my work to do. Waiter! Yes, sir. Wake up, stupid. Boiled calves feet for number two. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Whale of the Waiter by Marcus Clark Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson All day long at Scott's Sorminsies I await the gorging crowd panting pinned within a pantry with the blow flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash while the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash. And the weary handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast-gong resounding bids the festive meal begin and with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, waiter mutton-cops for four, flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard, steak and onions, shut the door. Here sits Bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbor corn-sock from the Upper Murray, who, with brandy nose in purple, then with blue lips cracked and dry, an incipient delirium shoves the egg spoon in his eye. Bloater-paste, some tender steak, sir. Here, confound you, where's my chop? Waiter, yes, sir? Waiter, yes, sir, running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorgers poor, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, hail for me, John. Where's my stick, and where's my hat? Oxtail soup, I ask for curry, cold-boiled beef and cut at fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage, what, no beans, bring me some pork. Soup, sir, yes? You grinning idiot, can I eat it with a fork? Take care, Waiter. Make your pardon. Curse you, have you two left legs? I asked for breaded hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no, I called for beer, of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes, sir? Waiter, yes, sir? Damn, sir, this steak is raw. Thus submit this hideous babble, do I live the love long day, while my memory is going and my hair is turning gray, all my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yara Bend at last, for at night from fitful slumbers I awaken with a start, murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple tart, while to me the poorest cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems, and those mislaid table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right? You say just tell me. Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans, and has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor sup on spirit-reared cowhill? Can the great Alexis Sawyer really say, so use tranquill, or must I bring spirit beefsteak grilled in spirit regions hotter, for the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I in a spirit kitchen hear the spirit blow-fies humming, calming spiritual stomachs with the spiritual coming? Shall, ah, but this is idle chatter, I have got my work to do. Waiter! Yes, sir? Wake up, stupid, boil calves' feet for number two. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. All day long at Scots or Minzies I await the gorging crowd, panting pinned within a pantry with the blow-flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for a soda and a dash, and the weary, handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast-gong-resounding bids the festive meal begin, and with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, waiter, mutton-cops for four, flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard, steak and onions? Shut the door! Here sits Bandicoot the Broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbor, corn-stock from the Upper Murray, who with brandy nose in purple and with blue-lips cracked and dry, in incipient delirium shoves the egg-spoon in his eye. Bloater pays some tender steak, sir, here confound you, where's my chop? Waiter, yes, sir, waiter, yes, sir, running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorgers pour, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale for me, John, where's my stick and where's my hat? Oxtail soup, I ask for curry, cold-boiled beef and cut-it-fat. I restew some pickled cabbage, what, no beans, bring me some pork. Soup, sir, yes, you grinning idiot, can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter, beg your pardon, curse you have to left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then you have laid those eggs. Sherry, no, I called for beer of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes, sir, waiter, here, sir, damn, sir, this steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babble, do I live the live long day, while my memory is going and my hair is turning gray. All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yara Binda last. For at night from fitful slumbers I awaken with a start, murmuring of steak and onions babbling of apple tart, while to me the poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems, and those mislead table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, ye sages tell me? Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans? And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Naylor sup on spirit-reared cowheel? Can a great Alexis Sawyer really say Sawyer Tranquil? Or must I spirit beefsteak-grilled in spirit-regions hotter? For the spirit-delectation of some spiritual squatter, shall I in the spirit-kitchen hear the spirit-blowflies humming? Calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming! Shall but this is idle chatter I have gotten my work to do. Waiter, yes, sir, wake up stupid boiled-caves feet for number two. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Whale of the Waiter by Marcus Clark. All day long at Scots or Menzies I await the gorging crowd. Panting, penned within a pantry, with the blow-flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash. And the weary, handsome cabbies set the blinking squatters down. Who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town? Soon the breakfast gong resounding bids the festive meal begin. And with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, Waiter, mutton chops for four. Flatheads, ham, beef, where's the mustard, steak and onions? Shut the door. Here sits Bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desperatory, scowling at his left-hand neighbor, corn stock from the Upper Murray, who with brandy nose and purpled and blue lips cracked and dry, in incipient delirium shoves the egg spoon in his eye. Bloater-paste, some tender steak, sir? Here, Count found you, where's my chop? Waiter, yes, sir? Waiter, yes, sir? Running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorgers pour, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale for me, John? Where's my stick? Where's my hat? Oxtail soup? I asked for curry, cold-boiled beef and cut it fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage. What, no beans? Bring me some pork. Soup, sir? Yes, you grinning idiot. Can I eat it with a pork? Take care, waiter. Beg your pardon. Curse you, have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, no, I called for beer, of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes, sir? Waiter, here, sir. Dammit, sir, this steak is raw. Thus amid this hideous babble, do I live the live long day, while my memory is going and my hair is turning gray. All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yara Bend at last. For at night, from pitful slumbers, I awaken with a start, murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple tart, while to me the poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems, and those mislead table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, each sages tell me? Does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans, and has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter, where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Nailer sup on spirit-reared cow eel? Can the great Alexis Soyer really say, Soyer's tanquilla? Or must I bring spirit beefsteak, grilled in spirit regions hotter? For the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter. Shall I, in a spirit kitchen, hear the spirit blow flies humming, calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual humming? Shall? But this is idle chatter. I have got my work to do. Waiter! Yes, sir? Wake up, stupid! Boiled calves feet for number two. And the poem, this recording, is in the public domain. The Whale of the Waiter by Marcus Clarke. Read for Librabox.org by son of the Exiles. All day long at Scotsaw Menzies I await the gorging crowd, panting penned within a pantry, with the blow flies humming loud. There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash, while the home-returning reveler calls for soda and a dash. And the weary, handsome cabbie set the blinking squatters down, who all night in savage freedom have been knocking round the town. Soon the breakfast gong resounding bids the festive meal begin. And with appetites like demons come the gentle public in. Toast and butter, eggs and coffee, Waiter, mutton chops for four, flathead, ham, beef, words the mustard, steak and onions, shot the door. His sits bandicoot the broker, eating in a desperate hurry, scowling at his left-hand neighbour, corn stalk from the Upper Murray, who with brandy nose and purpled, and with blue lips cracked and dry, in incipient delirium shoves the egg-spoon in his eye. Blow to paste, some tender steak, sir. Here confound you wears my chop. Waiter, yes, sir. Waiter, yes, sir! Running till I'm fit to drop. Then at lunchtime, fearful crisis, in by shoals the gorgeous poor, gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching, ten times hungrier than before. Glass of porter, ale for me, John, wears my stick, and wears my hat. Oxtail soup, I asked for curry, cold-boiled beef, and cut at fat. Irish stew, some pickled cabbage, what, no beans? Bring me some pork. Soup, sir? Yes, you grinning idiot. Can I eat it with a fork? Take care, waiter. Beg your pardon? Curse you have you two left legs? I asked for bread an hour ago, sir. Now then, have you laid those eggs? Sherry, know I called for beer, of all the fools I ever saw. Waiter, yes, sir. Waiter, hill, sir! Damn me, sir, this steak is raw. Thus, amid this hideous babel, do I live the live long day, while my memory is going, and my hair is turning gray. All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast, and I know that I'll be taken to the Yarra Bend at last, for at night, from fitful slumbers, I awaken, with a start, murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple tart, while to me the poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems, and those mislaid table napkins haunt me even in my dreams. Is this right, ye sages tell me, does a man live but to eat? Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat? Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans, and has man but been created to demolish pork and greens? Is there no unfed hereafter, where the round of chewing stops? Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops? Do the friends of Mr. Nail us up on spirit-reared cow hill? Can the great Alexis Soyer really say Soyer tranquille? Or must I bring spirit-beef-steak-grilled in spirit-regions hotter, for the spirit-delectation of some spiritual squatter? Shall I in a spirit-kitchen hear the spirit-blowflies humming, calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual coming? Shall but this is idle chatter. I have got my work to do. Waiter! Yes, sir! Wake up, stupid! Boiled carves feet for number two! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.