The Song of Semolina

A Note from the First Council of Olive Garden: The Wise Council of Olive Garden has been Blessed From Above by His Most Holy and Protein-Orbed Noodliness to receive these ancient texts, as unearthed by Pastafarian Cosmo Tautology. These texts speak of the earthly passion our ancestors clearly felt toward The Holy Meal, and have been adjudicated Canonical for their great historical and oddly erotic benefit to the Pastafarians throughout the ages. The Council is indebted to Cosmo Tautology for safely delivering these texts.

May All His Creatures Worship He Who Flies and Is a Spaghetti Monster! RAmen!

*The Council is grateful to Mr. Tautology for the inclusion of his notes regarding the finding and translation of these texts.

A Note from the Transcriber: The following text is taken from papyrus scrolls collected in a very low-ceilinged cave on a Mountain several miles further from anywhere than Nag Hamadi ever was. We are talking so far from anywhere that they make the Dead Sea look like CBGB. Meticulous study has revealed that these texts predate the reign of King David by several decades and must, therefore form some of the source-texts upon which the “Song of Solomon”(Solomon being David’s son) is based. Unfortunately, this dating also places the composition of these scrolls well before the creation of the Universe (which Jim Armagh, the usher at a movie theater in Peoria, calculates to have occurred at midnight on the first day of the fourth month of 2004), and therefore part of the False Evidence which has been placed by the Flying Spaghetti Monster as part of some Obscure Plan of which only He has Apprehension. Scholars, theologians, chefs, and pirates are fairly certain that He is snickering behind His Appendage even as you are reading this, enjoying some joke that the rest of us are neither omniscient nor omnipresent enough to get. Sometimes I think that it might be better to believe in a creator who randomly smites people instead. But then I remember: our heaven is way better, and we have Flimsy Moral Standards.

Chapter 1

The song of songs, which is about Semolina.
Let me eat it with the teeth of my mouth: for thy marinara goes
better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good olive oil thy name is as
olive oil poured forth, therefore does the bruschetta love thee. Draw water, we will boil it: the chef hath brought me into
his kitchen: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy meatballs more than the wine: the hungry love thee. I am hungry, but I tip well, O ye wait-staff of the Olive Garden, as the patio out back
by the parking-lot, as the appetizers at the Bar. Look not upon me, because I am hungry, because my lunch hath worn
off: my grocers were angry with me; those who wanted me to eat low-carb; but low-carb I would not eat. Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where
thou makest thy pasta to eat at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of patrons at thy restaurant? If thou know not, O thou fairest among noodles, go thy way forth by
the footsteps of the patrons, and feed thy kids inside the Red Lobster. I have compared thee, O my pasta, to a pile of ramen in
A poor college student’s dorm. Thy noodles are comely with lots of parmesan, thy meatballs with sauce
of marinara. We will make thee borders of tomato with flakes of basil.
While the chef sitteth at his table, my oregano sendeth forth
the smell thereof. A bundle of garlic is well-beloved unto me; it shall roast for
several minutes inside my oven. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of bacon-pieces in the carbonara
sauce. Behold, thou art fair, my pasta; behold, thou art fair; thou hast
meatballs and eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also my plate
is empty. The fork in my hand is silver, and my knife of stainless steel.

Chapter 2

I am a pirate of spaghetti, and pirates sail in galleys.
As a chef among the pirates, so is my pasta among the doubloons.
As a parrot among the birds of the wood, so is my entree
among the dinners. I sat down under one of those bistro-parasol-thingies with great delight, and the beer was sweet (figuratively) to my taste. Midgits [sic] brought me to the banqueting house, and the banner over me was
“All You Can Eat”. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with breadsticks: for I am sick of
Global Warming. Some of His Noodly Appendages are under my head, and Some of His Noodly Appendages doth embrace
me. I charge you, O ye wait-staff of Olive Garden, by the ravioli, and by
the salad that never ends, that ye stir my pasta, lest it stick to the bottom of the pot, till it be al dente. The voice of my waiter! Behold, he cometh leaping from the
kitchen, skipping past the bar. My waiter is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth
behind one of those fake-plaster walls, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice. My waiter spake, and said, Unto your pasta, want you
cheese on that? For, lo, the lunch special is past, the happy hour is over and gone;
The breadsticks appear on the table; the time of the singing of
some Italian song to some dude whose birthday it is has come, and the voice of the parrot is heard in our land; The pirate putteth on his best eyepatch, and the volcano with
the beverage of thy choice giveth a good smell. Arise, my stripper, my fair one, and come away. O my parrot, that art on my leftward shoulder, in the secret
places of the ladder to the sterncastle, let me see thy beak, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and I’ll bet you want a cracker. Take us to the midgits [sic], the little midgits [sic], that stand by Some Trees: for
Some Trees are on The Mountain. My pasta is mine, and I eat it: I feedeth also upon meatballs.
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my pasta, and be thou like a midgit [sic] or a young midget upon The Mountains with Some Trees.

Chapter 3

By night on my bed I sought him whom my stomach loveth: I sought
him, but I found him not. I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the
broad ways I will seek him whom my stomach loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. The cops that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw
ye him whom my stomach loveth? It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom
my stomach loveth: I held him, and would not let him go, until I had brought him into my house, and into the chamber where I eat dinner. I charge you, O ye wait-staff of Olive Garden, by the midgits [sic], and by
the midgets of the field, that ye stir my pasta, lest it stick to the bottom of the pot, till it be al dente. Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like balls of
meat, perfumed with garlic and basil, with all the breadcrumbs of the merchant? Behold his flour, which is durum semolina; threescore valiant buccaneers are
about it, of the valiant of the Seven Seas. They all hold swords, and forks, being expert in piracy, and extrusion and boiling: every man hath his
sword and fork upon his thighs because of fear in the night. The Flying Spaghetti Monster has made himself a table of the wood of Some Trees.
He made the legs thereof of oak, the top thereof of
formica, the covering of it of red-and-white checks, the midst thereof being paved with a bowl of breadsticks, from the wait-staff of Olive Garden. Go forth, O ye Pirates of the Seven Seas, and behold The Flying Spaghetti Monster with the Meatballs wherewith he is composed along with the Marinara Sauce, and the multiple noodly appendages.

Chapter 4

Behold, thou art fair, my entree; behold, thou art fair; thou hast
eyestalks within thy pasta: thy pasta is as a glob of noodles, that appear on my plate. Thy meatballs are like balls of meat and bread crumbs, which
are covered in sauce; whereof they are twins, and none is unspherical among them. Thy lips are like a noodle covered with scarlet sauce, and thy speech is comely:
thy dessert is like a piece of a tiramisu upon my plate. Thy salad is like the Astrodome builded for an salad bowl,
whereon there hang a thousand trenchers, all plates of mighty men. Thy two meatballs are like two balls that are meat, which
abide among the noodles. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to
The Mountain, and to the hill of Franks and Beans. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee (save maybe that tiny spatter of puttanesca sauce).
Come with me from the fo’c's’le, matey, with me from the fo’c's’le: look
from the top of the Afterdeck, from the top of the Mizzen-mast and Foremast, from the Bilge, from the Mountains of the Midgits. Thou hast ravished my stomach, my entree, my dinner; thou hast
ravished my stomach with one of thine eyes, with one appendage of thy noodles. How fair is thy taste, my entree, my dinner! how much better is
thy sauce with wine! and the smell of thine olive oil and all thy spices! Thy cheese, O my entree, drop as the honeycomb: tomato and basil are
under my tongue; and the smell of thy sauce is like the smell of Ragu. A garden enclosed is my entree, my dinner; a spring shut up, a
fountain sealed. Thy plants are an orchard of tomatoes, with pleasant herbs;
basil, with oregano, Oregano and garlic; and majoram, with all trees of
thyme; rosemary, and onion, with all the chief spices: A fountain of gardens, a volcano of living beer, and streams from
A Mountain. Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my Olive Garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my waiter come over to my table, and bring my extruded entree.

Chapter 5

I am come into my galley, my skipper, my helmsman: I have gathered
my tomato sauce with my spices; I have eaten my marinara with my pasta; I have drunk my wine with my rum: eat, O mateys; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O midgits. I sleep, but my stomach waketh: it is the voice of my entree that
knocketh, saying, Open your mouth, my pirate, my buccaneer, my privateer, my sea-dog: for my head is filled with grog, and my cannon with grapeshot and chain. I have put on my cutlass; how shall I put it on? I have washed my
jolly roger; how shall I fly it? My skipper put his hand on the tiller by the stern, and the course
was changed by him. I raised up the mainsail; and my hands held belaying pins,
and the timbers with sweet smelling tar, upon the planks of the deck. I opened the hatch; but my skipper had withdrawn himself, and
was gone: our course changed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer. The watchmen that went about the crows-nest found me, they smote me,
they wounded me; the keepers of the mast took away my eyepatch from me. I charge you, O wait-staff of Olive Garden, if ye find my skipper,
that ye tell him, that I am sick of being mistreated. What is thy shipmate more than another swab, O thou scurviest
among dogs? What is thy skipper more than another sea-dog, that thou dost so charge us? My skipper is drunk and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand.
His hat is as the most fine tricorn, his beard is bushy, and
black as a raven. His eye (the one without the patch) is as the eye of a parrot by the mizzen-mast,
shot with blood, and fitly set. His cheeks are woven with fuse-cord, as intimidating as a burning face: his lips
like caterpillars, drooling smelly rum. His ears wear gold rings set with the beryl: his waistcoat is as
bright satin stuffed with loaded pistolas. His left leg is as a pillar of pine, set upon the stump of his
thigh: his countenance is as Davy Jones Locker, strewn with debris and wreckage. His mouth is most foul: yea, he is altogether vile. This is my skipper, and this is my friend, O wait-staff of Olive Garden.

Chapter 6

Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among entrees? Whither
is thy beloved turned aside? That we may seek it with breadsticks. My beloved is gone down into the Olive Garden, to the beds of spices,
to feed in the gardens, and to gather garlic. I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine: I feedeth among the
never-ending salad. Thou art beautiful, O my love, as pici, comely as vermicelli,
terrible as a fleet flying the Jolly Roger. Turn away thine eyestalks from me, for they have overcome me: thy angel-hair
is as a sheaf of capellini boiling in water. Thy meatballs are as the orb of the moon which rises at twilight,
ruddy as blood, as if covered in marinara. As a piece of bruschetta are thy meatballs within thy linguini.
There are threescore midgits [sic], and fourscore Mountains, and
Some Trees without number. My dinner, my entree is but one; it is the only one of its
chef, it is the choice one of him that cooked it. The wait-staff saw it, and blessed it; yea, the bartender and the bussers, and they praised it. What is it that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon,
clear as the sun, and terrible as a fleet flying the Jolly Roger? I went down into the Olive Garden to see the
dessert menu, and to see whether the tiramisu flourished and the cappucino brewed. Or ever I was aware, my soul made me like the ships of
Blackbeard. Return, return, O Privateer; return, return, that we may look upon thee. What will ye see in the Privateer? As it were the booty of two galleons.

Chapter 7

How beautiful is thy pasta with sauce, O my entree! My
appetizers are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning chef. My wineglass is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy
pasta is like an heap of noodles set about with marinara. Thy two meatballs are like two balls of meat that are twins.
Thy pepper-grinder is as a tower of wood; thine salad like the fishbowls in
Petsmart, by the gate at the mall: thy carafe is as the tower of Pisa which leaneth toward the left. Thine cheese upon thee is like snow, and the sticks of thine bread
like garlic; the chef is held in the galley. How fair and how pleasant art thou, O Holy Meal, for dinner!
This thy statue is like to a fountain, and the fish-mouth
spouts forth water. I said, I will go up to the hostess, I will make a reservation
thereof: now I shall wait at the bar, until my table be ready; And the appetizer of my mouth like the best hors dâ€™oeuvre for my tummy, that
goeth down sweetly, causing the lips of those that are hungry to smack. I am hungry, and my server is coming toward me.
Come, my customer, let us go forth into the dining room; let us sit
at the table. Let me sit by the mural of the vineyards; let me see if the wine
flourish, whether the tender breadsticks appear, and the never-ending salad bud forth: there will I give thee my tip. The garlic gives a smell, and by the door are all manner of plastic fruits, new and old, which decorate the foyer, O my entree.

Chapter 8

O that thou wert as my matey, that sucks down rum like it is
water! when I should find thee without, I would greet thee; yea, I should not be despised. I would lead thee, and bring thee into my skipper’s galley, who
would instruct me: I would cause thee to drink of grog of the juice of cane. Some of His appendages should be under my head, and some of His appendages should
embrace me. I charge you, O wait-staff of Olive Garden, that ye stir my pasta, lest
it stick to the bottom of the pot, until it be al dente. Who is this that cometh up from the kitchen, carrying my
entree? I raised thee up under the Some Trees: there the midgit [sic] brought thee forth: there he brought me forth that tip thee. Set me as a plate upon thine table, with a fork beneath my arm, a napkin upon my chin: for
marinara stains are hard to remove; low-carb is cruel as the grave: the bread thereof is bread of dust, which is as dry as a popcorn-fart. Low-carb beers cannot quench thirst, neither can the low-carb beverage of choice:
if a man would give all the substance of his meal for a diet, it would utterly be bland. We like a little meat, but we also like starches, breads and pasta: what shall we
do with our meat in the day when it shall be our entire meal? If it be a ball, we will build around it a palace of pasta: and
if it be a chicken breast, we will pound it flat, enclose it with a crust of breadcrumbs and egg, and melt cheese on top. I dressed like a pirate, on my shoulder a parrot: then was I in His eyes (on their eyestalks)
as one that found favour. Semolina is made from wheat; He let out the pasta
unto buccaneers; every one for the food thereof was to bring a thousand pieces-of-eight. My dinner, which is mine, is before me: thou, O Semolina, must
have a thousand, and those that keep the food thereof two hundred. Thou that dwellest in the Olive Gardens, the customers hearken to His
voice: cause me to hear it. Make haste, my waiter, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.