A cheeky account of biting my lip while eating a salad
In salad fair and lovingly
Disguised as but a square of bread:
Miss Crouton, who most sweetly said,
“Do part thy lips so tender, greet
And with all haste proceed to eat
My simple, lovely, tasty frame.”
And had I known her other name,
Would hesitate a little more
And so avoid this present sore.
But knew I not, so thus I ate
Suspecting to alleviate
The rabid pangs of gluttony.
As fork impaled that loveless loaf,
Miss Crouton sang so cunningly,
“You saved the best for last: it’s me!
So wise in taste my newest friend,
Our future’s bright I do portend.”
She said no more as then I took
The crouton’s life. My senses shook
And carried on as flesh within
Gave way to scarlet down my chin.
What coward, fiend! Oh cruel hate!
Miss Crouton? No, Miss Fortunate—
Who made of me a foolish oaf.