When rendered, it is clear;
ain’t got much taste, but ain’t like sturgeon
eggs, salted—you want beer
caviar causes thirst to burgeon.
You ask me why I’m pulled
to this milk product; here’s what I say:
I’m filled with lactic bliss
When I have my whey.

Ingest—I do, a slew.
You might want to make an exception.
It’s liquid through and through,
but don’t feel blue at this deception.
When you force down your gorge
protein powders made in a sly way.
You might not know ’bout this:
You’re having dry whey.

Although it’s dried, you needn’t chew,
’cause you make a powder-liquid brew.
Into the powder, juice, say, spouts—
you slurp the slurry with your mouth.
I drink it all and never bawl,
’cause I love my whey.

Wheyther [sic] wet or dried,
better to fill with it, not boozing.
You’re not punchy, pie-eyed,
and your lunch you won’t be losing.
Strong drink can make you fat,
and you’ll gasp, “Drat!” seeing your high weight.
To not be so heavy,
you oughta try whey.

It will softly land inside your gut,
unlike unthoroughly chews nuts.
To me it truly appeal.
It isn’t fruit you gotta peel.
I go to stores to get some more
delicious fine whey.