The Eight Greats of 1888

In the great year 1888, on a day of feasting, a super date,
Came eight great-great-great greats in a hungry state.
They gathered at eight o’clock near the city’s iron gate,
To dine on fine plates stacked in eight figure eights.

They came dressed in tails, looking splendid and straight,
Saying, “Step up. Don’t wait! There’s a feast to appreciate.”
With a clink and a clank and a “Hear, hear! First-rate!”
They devoured steak and potatoes with gluttonous fate.

Four who ate said to the rest of the eight, arriving late,
“Agitate. Masticate. Celebrate. Now, clean your plate.”
At three hundred eight,” one said. “Let’s pause. Can we wait?”
“Not a chance,” others said. “Accelerate. Let’s not debate.”

They ate with a rhythm—greatly ornate and so innate.
At four hundred… five hundred… they would not deviate.
“A fateful trait,” they said, “to annihilate what we masticate.”
They cleared plates on through to seven seventy-eight.

At eight hundred eighty, one asked, “Is this checkmate?”
“Never,” they shouted. “We’re the greats of Eighty-Eight.”
With a gulp and a grin and a triumph more innate,
They finished all eight-eighty-eight—plate by plate.

Now in 1888, the eight’s feast made news especially great,
How the eight great-great-great greats cleared each plate,
This is a tale to narrate, exaggerate, and celebrate—
How the eight greats over-ate… and declared it first-rate.