The Cheesemaster Cometh.

The cheesemaster cometh,

Sweaty, stilton thighed.

He’s bitter-sweet.

And as strong as 

Equinoctial tides.

An omnipotent being.

He’s fat. At almost 

every occasion,

he is there, silent,

Sallow-pallored, pale and thick.

Getting red, saying

He’s from Leicester,

hanging out with carbs.

Unapologetically shifting

shape, melting, getting hard.

Do not approach the cheesemaster!

He wants you to smell him,

to include him, just a bit.

A smattering, is that enough?

No, get me the cheesemaster!

He resides in every corner

of the globe, and almost

every home, he lies in wait.

They say he’s bad;

the bad food from the cave.

He’ll give you nightmares.

Beware the cheesemaster!

He’s something of a sleaze,

reclining on some toast,

dripping in perspiration.

It is what you want!

He’s fruity ripe, he hums

a low, curdled tune.

Don’t roll him, after all, 

he is just cheese.

And like the moon,

he lights the way.

He’s just a simple food.

Even in the barest of times,

he’ll comfort you.

He’s really quite innocent,

he didn’t mean any of it.