MARGARINE
A Housekeeper’s Palinode
Margarine—the prefix “oleo-”
Latterly has been effaced,
Though no doubt in many a folio
Of the grocer’s ledger traced—
Once I arrogantly rated
You below the cheapest lard;
Once your “g” enunciated,
With pedantic rigour, hard.
How your elements were blended
Naught I knew; but wild surmise
Hinted horrors that offended
Squeamish and fastidious eyes.
Now this view, unjust, unfounded,
I recant with deep remorse,
Knowing you are not compounded
From the carcass of the horse.
Still with glances far from genial
I beheld you, margarine,
And restricted you to menial
Services in my cuisine.
Still I felt myself unable,
Though you helped to fry my fish,
To endure you at my table
Nestling in the butter-dish.
Now that I have clearly tracked your
Blameless progress from the nut,
I proclaim your manufacture
As a boon, without a “but.”
Now I trudge to streets far distant,
Humbly in your queue to stand,
Till the grocer’s tired assistant
Dumps the packet in my hand.
Though you lack the special savour
Of the product of the churn,
Still the difference in flavour
I’m beginning to unlearn.
Thoughts of Devonshire or Dorset
From my mind have vanished quite,
Since the stern demands of war set
Limits to my appetite.
Butter is of course delicious;
But when that is dear and scant
Welcome, margarine, nutritious
Palatable lubricant!