Allspice is nice in a slice
Of pumpkin pie.
Licorice is not delish and fennel belongs in a kennel with DOGS.
Amaranth is not what the fourth magi brought, or the djinn shook from the tree where slept the rosy-lidded virgin, or what good old Cerberus guards, vigilante Dante. Sing. Musey muisy, I miss John Musci. Down in Texas (drawl)
My fifth of real true vanilla from Mexico is a joy forever and really does make me better than other people.
Paprika makes me sneeza, curry makes me worry
That my relationship is doomed.
Tuna is my cat. Tuna was my cat.
Never name a sentient being who can tempt the fates Lady Fortuna. Not even the sweetest, fuzziest widdle snookiekins that ever snuggled.
Annie likes toast the most and dips breakfast sausage in her milk.
Eggs over easy are just grand
I’d even eat em bland.
Ugh. End of this. Which, by the way, is all the fault of poemhunterdotcom for taking down Billy Collins and redirecting me from Les Murray. If I’d had some real inspiration this wouldn’t have happened.