Center Of Earth Poem by Gregory H. Wlodarski

Everywhere we sprint or jog,
Be it in Boston or in Prague,

Our feet tread on a ground,
Of sand or dirt by gravity bound.

But beneath this sedimentary slough,
Is a very hard crust of rocky stuff.

Metamorphic or Ignacious,
Or igneous, to be loquacious.

And deeper still is our mantle block,
At first it's solid like a rock.

But the mantle melts deeper down,
Like a fluid in which to drown.

Yet for centuries the question stood,
Was the center of Earth rock or wood?

Was water at the core of our planet,
Or maybe a chunk of solid granite?

Then from the prophets an answer came,
According them with power and fame.

"Everyone drop to bended knees, "
'The center of Earth is Muenster cheese! '

All danced and sang, 'Its been designed.'
'Life's meaning is now completely defined.'

Later protests came: 'That's not true! '
'The center's really Roquefort blue.'

From a hill top one did holler:
'It's plain and simple Emmentaler.'

From his pulpit spoke Preacher Milton,
About the center that's really Stilton.

And in a church found in Chicago,
The pastor taught: it was Asiago.

From the temples some professed,
Slovic Bryndza should be so blessed.

But some couldn't find inner peace until,
They assumed it to be Havarti with dill.

Others maintained it was fuzzy soft Brie,
For in their hearts they knew it to be.

And when visions of this wedge appeared,
It was aged Romano these chosen revered.

Yet others affirmed the core to be,
Wensleydale with blueberry,

Or Cheddar or Gruyere or Parmesan,
Or even Feta as at the Parthenon.

Each region wanted their say,
About the core they wished to portray.

The tribes of Man stubbornly held dear,
Their own truth they thought so clear.

But wisemen have since gotten wiser,
As previous claims were such dividers.

And since we're now in the age of reason,
They came to an answer more in season.

'It's not Camembert or Swiss or Gouda, we agrees, '
'Earth's core is incomprehensible undefined cheese.'

But malcontents maintained: 'Cheese is silly.'
'The core is vermicelli with fusilli.'

But no matter what they claimed as truth,
All were equal in their imagined proof.

And despite claims the tribes exchanged,
Their days were unaffected, all unchanged.

Whether the core was of pasta or of cheese,
A cold will congest and make you sneeze.

Regardless to what one may adhere,
We still have to piss after a very large beer.

And no matter what their imagined answer,
I will most likely succumb to cancer,

Or vehicular crash, or simply old age,
Whether the core is cheese, pasta, or freshely ground sage,

Have faith in a center that's made of gold,
If one is so fearful of getting old.

And if one feels a victim of the Three Fates,
Consider a core filled with juicy sweet dates.

If one otherwise can't live in a compassionate way,
Then dream of a core that's a rose-filled bouquet.

But if the unknown will drive you insane,
Believe that Earth's core is pure cocaine,

But if one's need for an answer must be appeased,
Then accept that Earth's core is your favorite cheese.

But no matter what allays your needs or fears,
Know it's only real between your two ears.

So imagine whatever your cortices will,
I know the truth and it's a bitter pill.

Though the core's now thought to be molten iron and nickel,
I know for a fact it's a giant Gherkin pickle!

---