John, yours is a winner for sure!
I don't know if pastiche is what Lucy has in mind for this one, but I couldn't resist.
Song of the Cheese
I sing of processed American cheese, the glory of these States,
Factory sliced and shredded by white-apron’d workers clean and strong,
But I do not decline to feast also on the cheeses of Europe.
See me at the reception, hovering over the hors d’oeuvres,
Consuming a great wheel of Cheddar golden and glowing as the sun,
Making short work of the snowy-rinded Brie,
Gobbling up every crumb of the Morbier and its layer of smoky ash,
Devouring the blue mold of Roquefort, and Gouda with its crimson wax.
In vain does soft Camembert run in the heat to escape me,
In vain does a wedge of Stinking Bishop brandish its bristling name,
In vain does ripe Limberger assault my nose with its stench of sweaty feet,
In vain does the remotest iota of fermented milk in the vast wheel’d Universe
Conceal itself on a darkened moon, or the bottom shelf of a locked-up larder,
Or in a protective crust of puff pastry.
I find I incorporate all, all are part of me,
Out of them all I press the cheese of my Self.
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