Cheese origins

“This cheese is weird.” said my friend to me.

“They’re not naturally cubes you see.

The natural form is oval or round,

That’s how, in cheese forests, they are found.”

I inhale sharply and deliver tea

Into my nostrils and in front of me.

“What in the where now did you say?

I’ll ask you to repeat that if I may.”

“Cheese in the forests, in, you know, trees.

That’s where they grow, pollinated by bees.

Teeny tiny slices at first, but then,

A whole cheese wheel and that is when

You go and pick it so you have your cheese,

Before it falls down in an unusual breeze.”

She excuses herself as she is done eating.

Walks back to work or some sort of meeting.

My mouth so open it could house a fist,

I can only drool because of this sudden twist.


Baking pizza

Baking pizza in the oven. Can’t it be done?

Not quite as much as the eating, the baking was still fun.

Kneading dough with my bare fists,

Checking herby ingredient lists,

If I check what it looks like it’s yellow as the sun.

That’s the cheesy crust it has, moustache licking good!

Tomato sauce and salty things, like a pizza should!

Onions and garlic. Onions and garlic!

Onions in onions, garlic on garlic!

If I had a fireproof mouth, chomp down on it I would.

It’s done! It’s done! It’s been a half hour!

Its red and yellow is prettier than any flower.

Bye bye now, my dear friend.

I’ll salivate all the way till the end.

I’ll be so greased I will need a soapy shower!


Breakfast time, breakfast time,

Time to make my blood sugar climb.

Ham and cheese on my oat bread,

After some butter I’ve smoothly spread.

I take a bite and leave a mouth’s mark,

It looks like legs and I get a spark.

Stand the bread up and make it take steps,

Dancing on an empty bottle of Schweppes.

The ham and cheese fall off like a dress,

The bread screams shrilly with near-death stress.

Howling it runs back into its bag,

Without its dairy cover, its meaty rag.

The clothes of food fell off of my bread,

Its ensuing scream of scare left me dead.

I didn’t know that bread needed clothing,

And I bet what it feels towards me is loathing.

I didn’t know that my bread was alive,

I can’t eat it, it has to survive,

Tell its cool story to everyone around,

Write a breadography, “Not burned, just browned.”

Rowdy ear

My friend has an ear that’s a bit rowdy.

It can talk, and it often shouts “Howdy!”

When she sleeps it can also say “Yay!

Give me some cheese for a brand new day!”

Sleeping next to her can be a bit tiring,

With random shouts you’ll wake up perspiring.

The ear will demand you feed it cheese,

If you do, it’ll purr at ease.

Go back to sleep while mumbling soft,

Peaceful notes in a cheese-flavored waft.

After the feeding, my friend wakes up,

Her head feels heavy against the white coffee cup.

It’s a bit slow and tilted to one side,

I say nothing anymore, I know I’ve tried.

You can try telling people of their ear’s exploit,

They’ll laugh you all the way to inner Detroit.


Milk drips drips from my wet forehead,

As if I was a milk carton that bled.

Rye bread crumbs tackled my left eye,

I exhale curly pasta as I sigh.

A kernel falls out of my right-side nose,

Joins the other ones on my moistened clothes.

A salad chandelier on my rightern ear,

Glistens with a shiny caesar dressing tear.

My lids open slowly, heavy with bread,

Opposite me, a face of dread.

My friend in an after-sneeze shock,

Over his lunch, a frozen gawk.

“Could I maybe have a tissue please?

To wipe off this here, cheekiest cheese.”

Wipety wipe in total hush,

While my friend is lowering on his tush,

Waiting for what I will say or do,

Thinking in secret “I should’ve flew.”

I take a breath and inhale a pea,

Can’t help smiling, say with glee.

“I think you really should eat less meat,

Or cheese or milk, this tastes like feet!”


Hmm, I’m hungry, better get cooking.


I am a person who really likes eating.

I’m so good I’ve thought of competing.

I cook my own food as it puts me at ease,

Let’s my mind rest (and the result has cheese!)

I like to use all my senses when I eat,

Smell and sight the first, they do the greet.

I hear the sizzle from blazing pans.

Touch is for when I eat with my hands.

Taste is the last but it’s the best one,

Although, mostly aroma, of which there is a ton.

When I cook outside I like to smell the smoke.

BBQ smoke waters the mouths of folk.

Once I got so into the food’s awesome scent,

That I did not hold back, not a single cent.

The world got fuzzy, filled with delicious.

I do suspect some was also nutritious.

After a while I came to in the kitchen.

Who would’ve thought of food so bewitching?

The waiter looked at me in confusion;

I’d licked the chef during my intrusion.

That’s one way of experiencing, I guess.

Not the most polite, I also confess.

I justified myself: The food was magic!

The cook understood, it wasn’t tragic.

He was quite flattered by my zeal,

So we made a pretty nifty dine deal.

If I became a weekly occurrence,

Not the licking, the food-money transference,

He’d make my portions with extra care,

As long as I also bring some friends to share.

I said “Hell yes” as fast as I could,

Came back next week with friends from my hood.

The food was even better, gave last week’s a kicking:

So the whole staff got a very friendly licking!

So sometimes I guess it’s not that bad

To express your thanks in a way that’s mad.

It probably comes off as a bit weird,

But it’s heartfelt, that’s always revered.

Licking someone might be misunderstood,

But they’ll get that, I know I would.