You are like sweet pickles. I prefer dill, Always have and always will And your taste will never be enough.
But I choose you Because you are the Only thing on the table That looks familiar.
Your skin is just as Pleasing as a dill pickle, But this little similarity will only Sour my smile, And my disappointment in your taste Will become quite apparent As it echoes through the tunnels and channels of my Lips and eyes.
But I’ve passed up cheeses And wines for you (The cheeses are unfamiliar, Smelly, and fattening; the Wines turn me red And stupid).
Yes, I have chosen you. I hope your eyes dilate at that And the growing and enveloping blackness Takes over your vision and your will, Rendering me invisible But twice as lovely and Four times as dangerous.
With you blinded now, sweet pickles, Let me tie you up in my fingers And **** you.