Through all, these mists of thyme
ere prometheus put mustard to the test of rhyme,
afore Lorca lovingly spread mayo,
the Impish onion with a dancing purple halo,
waits hand in hand,
with pickle spears, to attention they stand.
Awaiting not the hoary slab of flesh.
The gorgeous bloody mess,
perfect as Adams prime rib,
better used here than creating woman, I cannot fib.
No not that, Maud Gonne,
My restless fleeting fawn,
They all hold by, senses jingle
for the staff of life, the buttered shingle.
The white devil,
an orgy of gluten in which to revel.
Alas, alas, forgive me Paleo,
the flesh is weak, and I, am faileo.