Ode to Mustard

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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.

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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.

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