Int'front yard I asked your favourite cheese,
to tell me you were only too pleased.
A wobble cuddled around my knobbled knees
You sharing with me details such us these.

How could I realise that the question created
a situation so terribly ill-fated.
I tried to offer you a cheese you hated.
A squeak of rusty hinges left me garden gated

Stood alone with my Wensleydale,
contemplating how quickly romance can fail.
I cried so much I filled an entire pale,
I've bought eleven packs — they were on sale.