O Margarine, in bygone years
We looked on you with doubt and fears;
But now, in wet and snow and cold
We stand outside while you are sold.

O Margarine, we blush for shame
To think how we received your name;
But this is not an idle boast
We love to spread you on our toast.

O Margarine, there are no buts,
We long for you, though made of nuts,
And since you do not make us queer,
As time goes on you grow more dear.

O Margarine, when we are sad
You cheer us up—if not too bad;
For now, without much fuss and sputter
We eat you, dear, and think you butter.