In Antwerp, Bruges, Ostend and Ghent
 I used to order food with flair,
 But in every inn to which I went
 They always brought me, with my fare,
 With every roast and mutton dish,
 With boar, with rabbit, pigeon, bustard,
 With fresh and with salt-water fish,
 Always, never asking, mustard.
 
 I ordered herring, said I'd like
 Carp for supper at the bar,
 And called for simple boiled pike,
 And two large sole, when I ate at Spa.
 I ordered green sauce when in Brussels;
 The waiter stared and looked disgusted;
 The bus boy brought in with my mussels
 As always, never asking, mustard.
 
 I couldn't eat or drink without it.
 They add it to the water they
 Boil the fish in and-don't doubt it-
 The drippings from the roast each day
 Are tossed into a mustard vat
 In which they're mixed, and then entrusted
 To those who bring-they're trained at that-
 Always, never asking, mustard.


 Prince, it's clear a spice like clove
 can drop its guard. It won't be busted.
 There's just one thing these people serve:
 Always, never asking, mustard.