Thou still unravish’d pie of deliciousness,
Thou foster-child of Feta and slow Time
Sylvan chef, who canst thus express
A culinary tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What pilates-trained Americans run at the sound of thy name,
Seeking Angioplasties or EKG’s, or both,
From Cardiologists in the dales of Johns Hopkins?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
The hitherto unknown pastry promise of wild ecstasy.
(My apologies to the genius that was John Keats)
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