Don’t relish too much the
Sweetness of his prose.
For though his pen can paint
A calligraphy of arts
On the plate, the meal tiered exactly
Like a castle’s keep, the sauce
Delineated à la mode in a drizzle
Of colours to delight and tantalize,
When the pen runs dry, scratching out
Its hunger, and he licks the dagger
Of the nib to whet its appetite,
Whoever the chef, whatever the palette,
On the tongue all ink tastes black.