Oh, pity his passion, my sweet Mayonnaise!
Just one glance from those eyes which (like eggs of the plover!)
Can kill—(or be cooked)—in a hundred of ways!
When first I beheld thee my thoughts flew unbidden
To dishes I'd eaten—so fair to the eye.
That I've looked and I've looked till the flavour they've hidden
Was forgot at the sight of the dish, or the pie.
Oh, grant that our loves, like potage à la crême,
Flow gently and smoothly along through the days.