¶1] I myself got good butter from a woman; the good butter—if it be good—I dont think it was from a cow, whatever it was of destroyed me.
¶2] There was a beard sprouting on it, bad health to the fellow's beard; a juice from it as venomous as poison, it was tallow with the taste of a sour draught.
¶3] It was speckled, it was gray; it was not from a milch goat; it was no gift of butter when we had to look at it every day.
¶4] Its long lock like a horse's mane, alas, knives to crop it were not found; long sick is he who partook of it, the good butter that was in our hut.
¶5] A wrapping-cloth about the sour grease like a shroud taken from a corpse: disgusting to the eye it was to look at the rag from the amount of its foulness.
¶6] There was a stench from that fellow that choked and stupefied us; it seemed to us to be of all colours, with a branching crest of fungus over its head.
¶7] It had never seen the salt; the salt had never seen it, save from a distance; the remembrance of it does not leave us in health, white butter bluer than coal!
¶8] There was grease in it, and not that alone, but every other bit was of wax; little butter did I eat after it, the butter I got that was flesh.