The simple life endured and bravely borne,
a happy satisfaction with our lot:
this path our flock has chosen, proudly shorn
of gross materialism and its plot.
Who’d hanker after gastronomic heights
those flesh-pots Epicures define as ‘sweet’?
Better by far tough turnip-tops and lights
than tender artichokes, exotic meat.
With Fortune’s slings and arrows let us live
and not on lobster, wagyu, caviare.
What’s lasting in the fleeting tastes they give?
Make mine a boiled potato, not foie gras.
And likewise porridge: lightly salted, plain.
No Crȇme de this-and-that, no Fumée, nor
drowning in Margeaux, Chateau La Tour, champagne.
A cup of tea and virtue’s all I’m for.