New prose is spied in the bright light;
What is it? Let us see.
Near hidden is what is expressed;
They search relentlessly.

’Tis instructions of a certain kind,
But very hard to follow.
What does it say? They search all day,
But still in darkness they wallow.

This vellum is a smelly thing
Should anybody’s nose
Come very near to sniff a smear
With aroma not rose.
Discouragement comes into play,
And all lament their woes.

They see embedded in it red,
As if with lips once kissed.
But it is clear: No lipstick smear
Made this; now they are pissed!
All know that anger must give way
To stance of scientist.

“We’ll start anew,” then barks the crew;
They forged on faithfully.
No more they curse…research renursed:
New curiosity.

The reddish blot was rather round,
With fractals filigreed.
But of it, what are they to make?
A deeper peek they need.

They are certain that by and by
They’ll sing a happy tune
And will not need a band…
Back to the blotch they zoom.

Gaze after gaze, gaze after gaze…
Kept ’wake with caffeine potion
On vellum some coffee does drip…
An Archimedes notion!

Colored water now sits there…
Sloppy, dropped drops of drink.
“Eureka!” one of them does blare;
He has had time to think.

He says it is a spill that’s like
The blotch splotch that they see
The red suggests it is food dregs.
“This was a recipe!!”

All of them shout, “Yes, it’s about
Cooking. We are so bright.
We’re sure it’s made partially of oils
Glopped on to veggies white.”

They’re so assured that they aver,
It had likely missed the potato
When the scribe had time to degust
Such a snack as on he wrote.

Treats for the tongue—there was no doubt…
Fried tubers one uproots.
So, call them “fries,” call them “pommes frites,”
The nomenclature moot.

’Twas surely written by a cook
As from some cask had sprung
Ketchup, which on the vellum sploshed
And stuck…riddle unsprung!