French loaf on a table
Lathered with horse milk brie
And Joan of Arc’s limed blood
Sprinkled into the grains
Food for rococo kings
Or paupers tied in strings
Toasted o’er open flames
Like Cranmer’s froggy toes
Or chewed soft and supple
Like Blessed in repose
So much salt and honey
Sinfully sweetened loves
All my soul in this stale loaf
Burnt morsels for old white doves
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