O! Gorgonzola was a mouse,
Italianate in all her ways.
In marinara she would douse
all food, from clams to baked souffles.
And Gorgonzola had a house,
a villa in Venetian style.
She shared it with her brother Claus,
an eminent Germanophile.
But Gorgonzola didn’t mind.
She’d rather that than live alone,
although she once had cringed to find
some bratwurst in the minestrone.
And so they lived without a care,
in happiness and solemn ease,
though yet and still she couldn’t bear
to say gesundheit when he sneezed.
Nor could she bide his friend, the rat,
who said he loathed to eat linguini,
and once had place a Prussian hat
upon her bust of Mussolini.
But life is filled with compromise!
We all must try to get along
with even those who in our eyes
are — ach du lieber! — very wrong.