How could so much love do us so wrong?
Oh, plate of bacon, how you tempt me so
With your sizzle and your crunch I do crave
A gift from Gods wrapped in a tasty bow
There are no leftovers to even save
Why can't I feel myself grow full from you?
There are no others that can be as true
Your fame is unmatched by any before and it's easy to see with such allure
With every new bite, the tears grow stronger
This small plate won't last for that much longer
As the bacon leaves, I fear what's to come
The plate is bare, with not even a crumb
Oh, plate of bacon, I still need you so
With hope, I pray for more bacon to show
My fiance snuck onto my Facebook and made a status that if it got over 20 likes, I would have to write a bacon poem/sonnet. Here is the result... (the status got over 60 likes)
I know I'm not an orange, but I feel like one at times.
My heart feels encased until someone peels the rinds.
Now I'm open for the tasting, but something in me dies--
I'll be left as bits of scraps; left to feed the flies.
Yea, I know I'm not an orange, but I'm rhymeless all the same.
To most wanderers I won't fit anywhere; I just can't be framed,
Though, perhaps, some may see challenge for another day...
At least that's the way I think everyone feels, anyway.
Look, I know I'm not an orange, but I feel acidic just like one.
The farmer's hand can't leave me be; the chaos is never done.
So I'm stripped and sectioned off for all the world to own.
I know I'm not an orange; I'm just a citrus fruit with bones.
My soon-to-be wife made a point that any poem called "I'm not an Orange" probably wouldn't do well with any sort of rhyme scheme. Because I'm me (and not an orange :-p ) I took this as a challenge and made the **** thing work ;-)
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