When a looker strolls by
on a Thursday afternoon
and dry cereal gets caught
in your throat
and your lungs are
incapacitated
by silk-
nope, that’s hair-
on that pretty head,
and that chiseled jawline
breathes life back
into your bones
and just-
GOD!
What kind of evil world
do we live in that
the Picassos of the gods
seldom choose folks
with a dangerous affinity
for deep dish
stuffed crust
supreme
Chicago style pizza
as life partners?
Such
a tragedy!
I LOVE this!
Haha thank you!!
The last ten lines are almost a poem by themselves, also an interaction between the narrator and the Picasso of the gods would help to set the tone of this poem, as it is though, funny and entertaining to read thank you
Thank you; I really appreciate it!
Good humor! That Chicago style pizza is hard to beat!
Haha it’s some pretty good stuff :-) thank you for reading!
But, remember, there is room in this poem for all the thin-crust, tomato, black olives, and mushroom lovers–no cheese, please, and light on the sauce…
Absolutely! There’s no room here for pizza discrimination :-)
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