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Description
Beneath the tablecloth, a secret lurks,
A symphony of cheddar, buttered curds,
Not born within the kitchen's sanctioned light,
But moonlit whispers, practiced sleight of hand.

My Uncle Danny, sly and contraband,
Conceals a world of golden, gooey might
Within his coat, a fortress built for cheese,
His pockets fortresses, a lunchbox grand.

We dine at fancy restaurants, aloof,
The air perfumed with whispers, starched white cloth,
But Danny's eyes, they scan the menu proof,
His brow betrays a hunger quite uncouth.

Beneath the clinking glasses and the murmur low,
Uncle Danny hides a secret, warm and soft.
A rebel grilled, a toasty outlaw, though,
No bandit mask, just hunger, swift and deft.

"Where'd you get that cheese, Danny?" tongues will wag,
A father's knowing chuckle fills the air,
"He's been making them at night, I know he is!"
He feigns a pout, a childish, practiced flair.

"I'm not making them at night, Dad!" he scoffs,
With eyes ablaze, he counters, brash and tough.
But then a wink, a grin amidst the flickering light,
"I've been making them at night," he states outright.

More than a sandwich, more than childish whim,
A silent pact, a comfort shared with him.
In every bite, a memory takes hold,
Of nights in kitchens, secrets to be told.

So raise a glass, to sandwiches so sly,
To hidden passions, and a knowing eye.
For Danny's cheese, it bridges night and day,
A smuggled smile, to brighten up the way.

A rebel king he sits, his throne untold,
His kingdom built on bread and melted gold.
So let them scoff at menus, plain and white,
We feast on dreams, where cheese is king and night

Is but a canvas for his culinary crime,
A grilled cheese smuggled, savored, sublime.
A lesson learned, beneath the table's gleam,
To find your comfort, even in a dream.

Description
Beneath the tablecloth, a secret lurks,
A symphony of cheddar, buttered curds,
Not born within the kitchen's sanctioned light,
But moonlit whispers, practiced sleight of hand.

My Uncle Danny, sly and contraband,
Conceals a world of golden, gooey might
Within his coat, a fortress built for cheese,
His pockets fortresses, a lunchbox grand.

We dine at fancy restaurants, aloof,
The air perfumed with whispers, starched white cloth,
But Danny's eyes, they scan the menu proof,
His brow betrays a hunger quite uncouth.

Beneath the clinking glasses and the murmur low,
Uncle Danny hides a secret, warm and soft.
A rebel grilled, a toasty outlaw, though,
No bandit mask, just hunger, swift and deft.

"Where'd you get that cheese, Danny?" tongues will wag,
A father's knowing chuckle fills the air,
"He's been making them at night, I know he is!"
He feigns a pout, a childish, practiced flair.

"I'm not making them at night, Dad!" he scoffs,
With eyes ablaze, he counters, brash and tough.
But then a wink, a grin amidst the flickering light,
"I've been making them at night," he states outright.

More than a sandwich, more than childish whim,
A silent pact, a comfort shared with him.
In every bite, a memory takes hold,
Of nights in kitchens, secrets to be told.

So raise a glass, to sandwiches so sly,
To hidden passions, and a knowing eye.
For Danny's cheese, it bridges night and day,
A smuggled smile, to brighten up the way.

A rebel king he sits, his throne untold,
His kingdom built on bread and melted gold.
So let them scoff at menus, plain and white,
We feast on dreams, where cheese is king and night

Is but a canvas for his culinary crime,
A grilled cheese smuggled, savored, sublime.
A lesson learned, beneath the table's gleam,
To find your comfort, even in a dream.