I love you butterly, butterly woman,
who melts in my mouth.
My margarine life is over, thanks to you.
I’ve never been betterly, butterly one.
Such a spread you are, the best spread,
there before me! I’m toast.
Seeing your hair fan out butterly on a pillow
fattens my feelings.
I want you butterly,
that badly, by the stick,
I want you in a dish,
crystal, from Waterford.
And I love you at room temperature,
a little soft, perfectly responsive
to the slightest touch.
What price butterly?
Only fools ask.
That the heart can pay and pay
and the butterly still be free
is a butterly mystery.
So let’s be butterly together,
the basic ingredient
for a sauce extraordinaire.
We’ll pour ourselves everywhere
Churning and churning,
not bitterly, no,
but butterly shall we go.

This poem first appeared in Free Lunch. 
Used here with the author's permission.