Don't be afeard. My prose, I shan't ditch.

Save for some poems for this gourmet chipwich.

One haiku, a limerick, and lastly a sonnet.

By the time I'm done writing, my dong will be on it.

***

Two cookies? Sexy.

Two cookies spooning ice cream?

My mouth houses an orgy.

***

Here's to delectable ice cream,

the core of a fat kid's supreme team.

But then there's those cookies,

no unseasoned rookies.

In conjunction, a championship wet dream.

***

The sweetest temptress is the food

that comes after your finished meal.

It causes you to sit and brood,

"How can dessert bring me this zeal?"

I can't succumb to carnal bliss

with two cookies, ice cream, and mint.

But, it's likeness, female's abyss,

When heads are tilted, both eyes squint.

I think for now I'll plead the fifth.

On my conduct, rather seedy.

But chaste and I as one is myth.

Faced with food, my eyes go beady.

Pervert! Glutton! Shouts I won't duck.

Talk to the chef. He makes. I fuck.