There's two sugar dumplings
called Tate and Lyle -
one just frowns
at the other's queer smile,

for Tate is different
to the rest of the sugar pack;
he harbours an overbearing weight,
an abnormal secret strapped to his back.

He's attracted, not to women,
but to tender men -
an odd manifestation within
that yearns again, and again.

O' sadistic Lyle knew this of course
and so was furious to the core -
for the little sugar brat
nursed a bleeding heart, broken and sore,

and as the pendulums of time
did eventually sway,
Lyle allowed his own brother
to be taken on a spoon, up up and away -

down into a boiling furnace of tea,
alas 'twas sallow anger,
not guilt, that Lyle felt,

his crystals of sugar bristling,
as he watched his younger sibling drown and melt.