Ballade Of The Breakfast Table

When the Festal Board, as the papers say,
  Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat,
At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner,
  (As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat)
  At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,
This is what gets me into a huff,
  This is a query I cannot beat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

I've broken my fast with the grave and gay,
  With hoi polloi and with the elite;
I've been all over the U. S. A.
  From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street.
  But aye when I sit in the morning seat
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff,
  Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

Take it at breakfast, only to-day:
  This was the layout, fresh and sweet:
Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay; [Footnote: And about as edible.]
  Cereal-one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This space for sale.]
    of wheat;
  Soft-boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat) :
Coffee (a claro-manila-buff) :
  Napery, china, and glasses complete-
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

L'ENVOI

Autocratesses, forgive my heat,
  But isn't it time to change that stuff?
Small is the benison I entreat-
  Why don't they ever have spoons enough?