A gift of butter

I got a gift of butter, now
Good butter it was claimed to be
I don’t think it was from a cow
And if it was, it cowed me

A beard was growing on the stuff
A goatish beard without a doubt
Ah. it was sickly, sour and rough
With poison juices seeping out

Ah, it was slick. ah, it was grey
I don’t think any goat produced it
I had to face it every day
Oh, how I wish I had refused it

The salts a thing it never knew
In fact I’m sure they never met
It sprouted spots of green and blue
It made me ill. I’m not right yet

‘Twas made of grease and wax and fat
And substances too vile to utter
You may be sure that after that
Ive rather lost the taste for butter

From A 12th century poem, author unknown

From texts at the time the case seems to be  that poet felt obligated to eat the butter because it was given to him by the attractive woman next door

Some things never change

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