Is it morning again?
Do I have to wake up?
I like this dish
But it doesn't taste the same anymore
My hair's a mess
But so is my life
I have to go out
Oh no, face the world
I'm out for so long
Do I have to go back? Is it home?
The day passed and it was uneventful. Or was it?
Did I do something wrong? Did something happen?
Is it morning again?
You were like breadcrumbs
left unpurposely by my digestion during breakfast
You stayed on the kitchen table 'til noon,
'til Mama swiped away the remaining crumbs,
I have lunch
with another dish--a different meal.
Something else, but not
The strife is fixed by all that’s grand,
But that just seems a wish!
It seems with all the world at hand,
You still can’t wash a dish.
Oh please don't leave me on the side
Sidekick, this side dish life is not what I'm about
I'm going down with speakers blaring loud
I'm swinging from every angle, gotta keep it proud
keep my head above the noise and
the fan blades chopping through everything
my head is too full of ghosts and scissors
I am a loser, need to find me a winner
take me out to dinner
spill your contents into me and after
I won't find me another, I'm too full of disaster
too full to ask her
what she's doing out this late
empty my plate
I am not a side dish
but I still act like one.
It may be his
Theme: Serve him his favorite
Not sticking to the rules
In my bread & butter
I like being creative.
experimenting with my own flavours. .
I'd silt there beside a barb wired fence
and once praised these vagaries again
then yesterday at daybreak
as aft-dew came this flow-r
and hit hers in between rows of attire
where her beauty was herd in raindrops today
and altogether was something very big
with milk and honey in a market of wares.
At dinner for two
I chose a tasting menu.
Chatter was pleasant,
Until the sous-vide pheasant.
My faults were expressed.
I did not forsee,
A deconstructed m
I'm forever circling over the tree tops
I don't have to flap my wings, I just glide non stop
Just trying to find some place to land
For your clock was stoped, you've ran out of sand
Don't worry no pain I bring
You won't feel a thing
I will feast upon your rotting flesh
It is my very favorite dish
I will gobble it all down even the wiggling maggots
And whatever else there inhabits
I do my circling dance in the sky
Just to let others know that near by
Something must have died, and lays baking in the sun
And I will soon be having fun
Every dainty dish of love
she rapturously serve him
has an unmistakable distinct flavor!
He repeatedly wonder, often aloud,
that what would be the magic she applies,
in her smashing haute cuisine ensemble.
it's love, like butter, pure and dense
in large dollops,with it's flavor invariable,
is the one constant major ingredient,
in every which dish she cooks;
for all his questions, persistent and curious,
her answer would be just a smile mysterious.
In their love life enviable, this one thing
still remains the million dollar question!