Those Flapjacks Of Brown's Poem by Bert Leston Taylor

OH light as the foam on the Plover,
That mottles that magical stream;
Oh light as the vows of a lover
And the sighs of a summer night s dream;
Aye, light as the gossamer stuff of
Salome s impalpable gowns,
Are the flapjacks I can t get enough of
Those flapjacks of Brown's.

A cure for the cares that beset us,
Each cake is a separate joy;
Gold-brown as the sweets of Hymettus,
But lacking their classical cloy;
Brown-gold as the burr-oak in Autumn,
This masterpiece cookery crowns.
They are served with the trout (when you've
caught em) --
Those flapjacks of Brown's.

They come piping hot from the griddle,
And you tuck away tier upon tier,
An ecstasy seizes your middle,
A sense of ineffable cheer.
Each stack that you tenderly butter
The maple juice lovingly drowns,
And you eat, till no word you can utter,
Those flapjacks of Brown's.

O cakes of alluring complexion!
O dainties as light as the dew!
O flapjacks that fond recollection
Will always present to my view!
Their like you will never discover,
All vainly you quest them in towns.
They are born on the banks of the Plover --
Those flapjacks of Brown's.