It's about time we celebrated mustard.
Mustard is, of course, too ironic to celebrate anything.
It cocks an eyebrow at the perfumed complacencies of orange juice.
It dashes off epigrams while balsamic vinegar
Experiments with the most complicated verse forms,
And ketchup plods through summer-camp songs.
No slouching shoulders for mustard, no sleeping through the alarm.
Like rosemary, another old friend, it reaches rapid judgments,
For mustard does not suffer fools and poets gladly.