METHUSELAH’S FOOD
Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
and never, as people do now,
did he note the amount of the caloric count;
he ate it because it was chow.
He wasn’t disturbed as at dinner he sat,
consuming a roast or a pie,
to think it was lacking in granular fat,
or a couple of vitamins shy.
He cheerfully chewed every species of food,
untroubled by worries or fears,
lest his health might be hurt by some fancy desert,
and he lived over nine hundred years. An old camp poem
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