Enthroned regal on the chef’s handpicked
plate, adorned with the Grecian cutlery.
Crowned with a dash of lush-push
glistening glorious butter surrounded with
the gleeful wild mushrooms, snobbish
handpicked Romas, and that indifferent
Sun-baked Potato King.
Juices of Youth overflowing through
edges, butchered just this morning by
some sturdy Polish hands, around
The Madison Square Gardens…
If wars were fought for the Helen of Troy
or Roman Empire was fallen who knows?
A sinful bite of those decadent juices from
luscious fats is worth all the battles taken
with the mighty Vegan empire.
Choirs of the Weight-Watchers might
conspire, The great David may
not rescue this time…
Gods smile on beings who resist and
endure, I might never be under any
benevolence or in League-Extraordinaire
of Skinny and Thin
I’ll surrender to the horrors of every
calorie-watcher or prying gaze of my
wise Aerobics master. I’ll sing my grace
and dig into the flesh of forbidden