I BOUGHT a pound of yellow cheese, the other day, from Grocer Wheeze.
And as he wrapped it up he cried, “In this fine cheese I take much
pride. It’s made from Jersey cream and milk, and you will find it fine
as silk; it’s absolutely pure and clean, contains no dyes or gasoline,
it’s rich and sweet, without a taint, doggone my buttons if it ain’t.
Oh, it will chase away your woe, and make your hair and whiskers grow.”
I took it home with eager feet, impatient to sit down and eat, for I am
fond of high-class cheese, which with my inner works agrees. But that
blamed stuff was rank and strong, for it had been on earth too long. My
wife, a good and patient soul, remarked, “Bring me a ten-foot pole,
before you do your other chores, and I will take that cheese out doors.
Before it’s fit for human grub we’ll have to stun it with a club.” What
does a sawed-off grocer gain by such a trick, unsafe, insane? And what
does any merchant make by boosting some atrocious fake? Yet every day
we’re buying junk which proves inferior and punk, although it’s praised
to beat the band; such things are hard to understand.
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