I myself got good butter from a woman
The good butter if it be good
I don´t think it came from a cow
Whatever its origin, it destroyed me.

There was a beard sprouting from it,
Bad health to the fellow´s beard
A juice from it as venomous as poison
It was tallow with a sour draught taste.

It was speckled, it was grey
It was not from a milch goat
It was no gift of butter
When we had to look at it every day.

Its long lock was like a horse´s mane
Alas, no knives were found to crop it
He who partook of it has long been sick
The good butter that was in our hut.

A wrapping cloth (was placed) around the sour grease
Like a shroud taken from a corpse
It was disgusting to the eye
To look at the rag from the amount of its foulness.

There was a strong stench from that fellow
That choked and stupified us
We imagined it to be multicoloured
Covered by a branching crest of fungus.

It had never seen the salt
The salt never saw it except at a distance
Its memory does not leave us in health
White butter bluer than coal.

There was grease in it, and not only that
But every other bit was of wax
Little butter did I eat after it
The fleshy butter I received.