Marco Palazzo had a rare disease,
That turned his dandruff to Parmesan cheese.
He worked at a restaurant five nights a week,
As a valet attendant but sometimes he’d sneak,
In the back of the kitchen where food was prepared,
He’d scratch at his scalp and ruffle his hair,
And get his dandruff all loose and ready,
Then pick a fresh dish of steaming spaghetti,
Lean over the pasta and season the plate,
With a generous snowfall of yellowish flakes,
Then a final scratch and shake of his head,
Gave a nice touch to the garlic bread.
So one lucky customer every night,
Would enjoy a meal of special delight,
Unaware of the tasty secret within—
Little by little Marco fed them dead skin.
But after a while this weighed on his mind,
Was he really being cruel when he meant to be kind?
Was his intended altruism,
More like enforced cannibalism?
So he quit his job and moved to Rosetti,
Where he started a business selling confetti.
Word got around it was a quality product,
If you didn’t mind that it smelled like vomit.
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