The Right Hand.

A finer manner never crossed a plate. No clatter. No chimping of the tines upon The china. Miraculously, meat slips Into the mouth. No sound: no chewing. No one But a British Queen could machinate The petty poises needed to maneuver Such a meal. But it is not upheld To a glass: nor is a glass upheld to it. Indeed, nor discussed over Creme de menthe. No more would the true Cogniscento exclaim at the sight Of a well-clipt serif, or a curly-Q Admirably bent, or a flounce hot & Pressed in pleats. Such is the lot Of those who whip up and prune out Their politesse, aspiring one day To fold their dextrous soul Peaceably in the leaves of Good King James: silent: prosaic: lipless: Able to be imitated joylessly.