O you wobbling brown rounds of new-fried dough,
Piled like a decade of harvest moons
All in one evening sky-- you tempt me so!
I envy e'en the plate on which you soon
Will rest with grace; see how it salivates,
Soapy water dripping off the plastic.
For you, you fluffy temptresses, I'll wait
Out ceremony, enthusiastic,
Yet mindful ever of my place. I must
Not once devour you right off the pan,
But rather should conquer the flame of lust,
And savor your sweet glory through the span
Of morning, till the syrup on my teeth
Congeals into thirty golden sheaths.
[A/N: The poem that was here has been removed for further work in my secret laboratory of Awesomeness. You may, however, feel free to take a stab at this one, though it is only straw.]
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