I relished applying the butter on her body,
She enjoyed slurping my cream,
God knows how strongly we both used to dream,
And now,
Taking her higher for babies she lets out a scream,
I am writing this ***** poem,
She too is obviously not riding an Audi.

We were smooth like butter kisses
no longer
My lips curled in disdain
for your luscious lips
A distaste for fond memories
of us, now bittersweet
It no longer matters
since the butter is burnt

For the perfect recipe
Two cups of all-purpose flour
Let's get started
One cup of butter
Makes it creamy
One fresh egg
Binds us strong
Half teaspoon of vanilla
Your luscious lips
Quarter teaspoon of salt
My love is hydroscopic
And less sugar
I don't need more

On the box of Midwest Butter,
in the verdant dairy pastures,
sat the smiling Indian maiden,
daughter of her tribe, the maiden.
Holding forth a golden offering;
from the box her yellow treasure
for the yet unbuttered buyer.
Gently her sweet knees protruded
from her humble beaded buckskin,
from her beaded buckskin garment
each supported by a letter;
full twin globes upon an altar.
As mammalians, when they’re nursing
seek the rounded gifts of nature
while their hands, abreast and lifted
grasping, find the source of plenty,
swallow fast that milky manna
swallow down that flowing liquid
with a smile upon their features,
so my soul rejoiced to meet her
in the grasslands of a daydream
in the pastures of my daydream,
holding forth divine recurrence:
gift within a gift forever
churning, and imploding inwards
infinite, receding backwards
into endless Indian maidens
spreading myth upon my table
on my toast upon my table
till her tribe returns in glory…

*(etc, etc...  with apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

The sugar, the ice, glazed upon the cream buns.
An array of plates of delicacies.
The roasted pig, grunted while being chewed.
Or perhaps, that was the man who chewed it.

She stood in rags waiting to be served.
'What would 2 pence get me?'
They snickered and giggled as she,
Bought a stick of butter for dinner.