Mille-Feuille, a limerick riptose

Mille-Feuille, a limerick riptose

Mille-Feuillie, plate-bearing, the beetling thousands,

O ye stained foundant sheets.

Till the hard icing cover closes in, let each dark sleet keep its heat.

tempering it it grows more unreasonable still,

each bite fills ye scent-hound's nostrills,

and in each swallow the flippant dancing of the cheek.

Shame that pastry sweet & creamy is not true,

of its contents, if one tells only tales of its elements thunderous bind and overthrow---with nothing edible to shew!

O Mille-Feuillie if ye waft ever only so sweetly like fleurs or fruits,

as the mountant strikes from a common standard of minds' yellowed sheets---my sable plume so commands,.... dipping chocolator's hands!

A bloke is gonna yell out--liar! for a thing that sweet is no reason's treat!

Into a ball roll'd that sandy yellow thousands, and all penned thoughts smell of cocoa,

and that bright bloke is gonna yell: t'is not pastry creamy & sweet ye produce...

(swallowing it)

t'is all sheets! all sheets! save for thy black and dim tasting ink-drivel,

t'ese but all empty sheets!