A Sonnet to Bread
One of the few ways you can end up dead
By the hand of an otherwise placid girl
Is to come between her and her french bread.
Beware of she who is pure as pearls
Pure she is not when the beast of hunger roars.
While puppeteered by primal impulses
She tears through loaves like a wolf on all fours
In such state even herself she repulses.
But alas, bread was put on earth to eat
Devouring among the finer joys
So go stuff your cheek with a hunk of wheat
Do not be afraid of scaring the boys.
They are not worth you if they do not agree
To ravenous eating while at high tea.
