It came to my attention
just the other day
there are very few poems
written about Worcestershire sauce.

Maybe it's the way we uniformly
can't spell the **** word,
as it walks onto the golden scene
like a stumbling child unable
to put one foot in front of the other.

That's how it feels as it rolls off my tongue,
and I find myself lowering my voice
to a desperate hugh to mask my unknowingness.

Worcestershire sauce is plagued with good looks.  
She is mountainous on paper,
like a range over the Alps,
that I want to climb barefoot in spring.

Or a rare type of dog
you find gallivanting next to it's
owner at the Ohio state dog show,
conditioned hair glowing in the light.

But lets not forget how she
compliments a stew,
or a lackluster dish
like a sailor to a maiden:
how you season my day!

Would Mary's be ****** without her droppings?
I'll save that answer for the day I can pronounce her.