Ode to Margarine

*For Billy, Patron Saint of Flavor*

Oh golden block, so soft and mild,
The joy of every ramen-stirred child,
In humble tub or plastic sheen,
You reign supreme—dear margarine.

Billy, lad of stovetop fame,
Whose love for you none dare to tame,
Awakes each morn with heart a-flame
To whisper softly your creamy name.

Not for him the butter's boast,
Too rich, too proud, too uppermost.
No, he prefers your humble glide—
The way you melt, then gently hide

In boiling pots of noodles bare,
A slick of gold, beyond compare.
He stirs you in with reverent care,
A glistening swirl, his answered prayer.

And pizza—yes, the sacred pie,
Not quite complete, he won't deny,
Until a pat from your bright soul
Adorns the crust and makes it whole.

Some may scoff, and some may jest,
But Billy knows what's truly best.

Not fancy oils or cheese that brags—
Just margarine in glorious drags.

He lifts his fork, he takes a bite,
And angels weep at such a sight.
For taste like this is born, not made—
In margarine, dreams never fade.

So here's to you, spread of delight,
Who makes dull dinners shine so bright.
In every dish, both odd and fine,
You are the muse, the food, the shrine.

O margarine, forever stay—
In Billy's fridge, don't slip away.
For love like his, both pure and keen,
Deserves a world of margarine.