An ode to pizza

Is this a pizza I see before me,
The crust towards my hand? Come, let me eat thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, tasty vision, sensible
To tasting as to sight? or art thou but
A pizza of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed oven?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which I now slice.
Thou marshall'st me the way I was going;
And such a pizza wheel I was to use.
Mine stomach is made the fools o' the other senses.
Or else worth all the rest; I taste thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of cheese,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the cheesy business which informs
Thus to mine tongue. Now o'er this one half-pizza
Nature seems dead, and wicked pizzas abuse
The curtain'd table;



My sincere apologies to William Shakespeare

http://www.shakespeare-navigators.com/macbeth/T21.html