It has occurred to me that I don’t write enough poetry. To rectify this woeful situation, I have decided to compose a series of sonnets. I’ll stop at the first fatality.
Shall I compare thee to a stilton cheese?
Thou art more fragrant and more likely to melt:
Rough wax does bind the squishy lumps of grease,
And rounds of curds do fill the bloated belt:
Sometime too hot the oven glows,
And often is the pale complexion burned;
And other cheeses melt into wet floes,
By broilers or the bubbly pastas churned,
But thy eternal cheddars are not fatty
Nor lose the lovely waxiness thou ownest;
Nor shall Ronald use you on a patty
When in the line-up at McD’s thou groanest.
So long as cows do milk or goats can baa,
So long lives this, and this makes you go “AAAAA!”