I am so, so sorry.

Had we molluscs enough, and thyme
Carraway, honey, and dry white wine
These Roman sauces might thee move
To cook up cuttlefish with love.

For I shall simmer up some broth
And add the pepper, nothing loath,
And toss in, heedless of the price
Some celery seed and lovage nice.

And when the cuttlefish is done
'Tis split from paddle-tip to crown.
A mix of boiled brains, sans skin
With pepper, eggs, all pounded in

To bundle with some linen fine
(Which from my closet I'll unwind).
Fair-boiling stock is now its bath
Until the forcemeat is quite safe.

All these spices, herbs, and roots--
The finest wine, the tend'rest shoots:
I hope these condiments thee move
To cook up cuttlefish with love.


Very, very sorry.