I’ve eaten marmite for as long as I can remember and then some. We used to toast crumpets in front of an open fire, real butter and then the nectar that is marmite.

Ah, Marmite, in your squat and amber jar,

A pungent promise, near and yet so far

For some, a nectar, rich and deeply known,

For others, dread upon a breakfast scone.

Dark, viscous spread, a salty, yeasty might,

A brewing byproduct, turned to pure delight

(Or so the lovers sing with fervent glee),

A savory umami, wild and free.

Upon the pale expanse of buttered toast,

A thin brown smear, a flavor to be boast’d.

It wakes the sleepy tongue with sudden zest,

A bold adventure, putting taste to test.

You stand defiant, polarizing all,

No tepid feelings grace your rise or fall.

“Love it or hate it,” proudly you proclaim,

A culinary dare, a flavorful game.

From humble origins, a brewer’s gift,

You’ve stirred up passions, made a mighty rift

Between the camps of those who understand

Your salty magic, spread across the land.

So raise a spoon, or scrape a careful knife,

To Marmite’s power, the essence of food-life.

A taste unique, a British point of pride,

Whether embraced with love, or cast aside!