Imagine the despair of someone old
Only begging to be called mature.
I know old grandmother Brie would scold
If we cut the truckle for mice to lure.
Old father, fanboy of feta and cheese,
Would come to the lobby in Switzerland
And often drop his dusty, rusty keys
And talk of cheese while eating peas
Getting a sneeze and leaving with cheddar cheese.
It is the fault of us children who put out a cauldron
Which smelt amusingly like Gouda,
Father came back, asked for a snack
And told us to save a piece of good Gouda
But when on his quaint attire
Was spilled the strangest mixture
He called out for Molly and shouted, "Holy!"
And from the kitchen came swiss
Spread on bread, tomatoes red
And Molly explained how hole-y.
I agree, simply grate this cheese was but
While we were busy with cheesy business,
The mice nibbled the truckle up
And everyone was beaten up
And the only thing left was de Brie.
Soon, came more cheese and the
Children giggled with cheeky glee
But this truckle was only for father
Who had witnessed quite the disaster. And that is how feta up I was As the oldest, I was blamed 'boss of the cause'.