Enough’s been sung of juice divine
From reddish clusters grown on vine –
The drink of gods, which common men call wine.
Tis time to praise th’supremest food,
Of poets yet unsung, unwooed –
O pale mounts of pungence, stir my mood!
How gloriously you fill the belly!
Your perfect texture, unlike jelly,
Is solid softness – let them call you smelly!
Both simple folk and royals please
Their palates with a graceful ease
By munching ‘pon the humble hunk of cheese.