Rejected Shakespearean Sonnets
Cheese is not cheese, that melts with the melter to grate,
and, having melted, does once more congeal. Oh no, it is
a far stringier thing than once I did eat, and when
the ode to a shoelace I found in my spaghetti,
which had wound itself around my finger
like your sweet nostril when I
doth pick your nose for you.
Nay, sweeter still, are the moments dear
when there is nothing but cheese between us, for
cheese talked not, neither does it crumble. These are
the times when our souls in higher melody doth rise
and settle in a further place full of new savor, like cheese.
