Buttercup

You butter me up,
Then cast me down,
My butter-side
Stuck to the ground.

I rid the dirt,
And I mellow,
But then you spot,
My streaks of yellow.

You spread me thin
On week-old bread.
Expecting tastes
Newly wed.

Butter pleases,
Butter feeds,
Butter mixes,
Butter bleeds.

If bread were a fresh vessel,
Not curled up.
Then I’d warm into
Your buttercup.

Written for lots of dough, in-dismal ink, not to be confused with invisible ink, by Hazy Crying-in-her-Clapdarnach-Beer Dizzylady, the Highland Island Bard.