A Poem about Lucculus
Lucullus was a fighter for a portion of his life;
He won the bay and laurel by his prowess in the strife.
He came back home a hero (and no doubt, just as today,
They named a cocktail for him ere they looked the other way).
But when Lucullus noticed he was losing grips on fame,
He struck a happy notion to perpetuate his name.
He took to giving dinners in a palace he had built—
‘Tis said that lots was eaten and a sea of wine was spilt;
That guests might order anything in dishes old or or new
And get the very rarest, and a second order, too!
Quick lunches or course dinners—anything a man could wish
In the line of drinks or dainties; yet he was no nouveau riche.
Lucullus won great battles, victories that he might boast,
Yet today we recollect him merely as a lavish host.
It is said that once he ordered quite the richest feast prepared
But no guests came to enjoy it, and the busy chef was scared.
“Is nobody here for dinner?” asked the flustered, pestered chef.
“I am dining with Lucullus!” roared Lucullus. “Are you deaf?”
But we think that one great reason for his never-dying fame,
For the pure, unfading luster of his dinner-eating name,
Is that though Lucullus feasted at a very great expense
And sat down to simple breakfasts where the health foods were immense,
He was gracious to his fellows, was considerate of each,
And he never put his chestnuts in an after-dinner speech.