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!