With apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Plates cleared, we dine no more,
Yet I still want to eat!
And may there be no creaking of the door
When I remove my treat,

But such a swing as hides the robber’s acts,
The fridge remaining dumb,
When he from off the icebox shelf extracts
The breakfast plum.

Cold; sweet; I’m full at last,
And yet I feel the worse!
So lest you angry accusations cast
I write this verse:

For tho’ from greed I’ve denied you, friend,
The fruit on which you dote,
I hope to be forgiven in the end
When you have read this note.