tonight vee vill grate some cheese!

This is the lovely grater Sheila gave me for my birthday! She came with a delightful poem about how when she dances at the ball, her skirt leaves behind a big pile of gated cheese. Where does that kind of wit originate? Why, Pylones, of course. Is she holding a muff or a hunk of Swiss cheese? Only she knows.

Thank you, Sheila!