Potatoes

A Brie

I fume, yet I cannot write me
a poem noxious as this Brie:

Brie whose shapeless foot is pressed
to the cheese board, glued, distressed;

a Brie that stinks to heaven all day,
smells worse than underarms I'd say;

Brie overdue by days has drear
streaks of brown bacteria,

upon whose surface cheese-knife lay,
now sunk into that solemn grey.

Bad verse is made by fools like Kilmer -
best chuck that Brie out after dinner.