Poets, Painters, And Puddings; These Three Make Up The World As It Ought To Be. Poets Make Faces And Sudden Grimaces: They Twit You, And Spit You On Words: Then Admit You To Heaven Or Hell By The Tales That They Tell. Painters Are Gay As Young Rabbits In May: They Buy Jolly Mugs, Bowls, Pictures, And Jugs: The Things Round Their Necks Are Lively With Checks, (For They Like Something Red As A Frame For The Head): Or They'll Curse You With Oaths, That Tear Holes In Your Clothes. (With Nothing To Mend Them You'd Best Not Offend Them.) Puddings Should Be Full Of Currants, For Me: Boiled In A Pail, Tied In The Tail Of An Old Bleached Shirt: So Hot That They Hurt, So Huge That They Last From The Dim, Distant Past Until The Crack O' Doom Lift The Roof Off The Room. Poets, Painters, And Puddings; These Three Crown The Day As It Crowned Should Be.