Where the strong labial muscles must embrace,
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests unknown to vulgar eyes;
Experienc’d feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried,
With just precision could the point decide,
Tho’ not in song; the muse but poorly shines
In cones and cubes, and geometric lines.
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose egg-shell,
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the centre to the side.
Fear not to slaver; ’tis no deadly sin,
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project,
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall,
The wide-mouth’d bowl will surely catch them all.
