Crisply now yon bacon breaks --
Fraught with rind skinned parsley flakes.
Fair blows the brisket in the morn
For May has pinked the Matterhorn.

And from the quidball sprays the dew
Now wake my love, the bacon's you.
Hark - hear the rise of the maitre d'
Where buttles the thriple - me, thee, and she.

- From "A Pomme-de-terre Amour" (an earthy love poem)