This is a poem for the tastiest of meats,
one of the world’s most wonderful feats,
whose popularity I learned of last week,
when I blogged about it like a hungry freak.
You’re cut from a pig, then carefully treated.
With a beaming smile you are ecstatically greeted.
Your addictive flavour should be some kind of sin.
When I cook you in a frying pan, your oil spurts out and burns my skin.
I see you sitting there on my plate,
knowing that you’ll taste unbelievably great,
but you’re still too hot, I’ll have to wait.
More than once I’ve eaten you past your ‘use by’ date.
Your fat clogs my arteries, and yes, I know,
that because of you, to an early grave I shall go.
I like you when you’re soft, I like you when you’re crispy.
When you’re gone from my plate my eyes get all misty.
My bloated belly is a small price to pay,
for the constant burping that reminds me of you all day.
As the years go by, my love for you never weans.
Sometimes I eat so much that I suffer chest pains.
And so I have composed this poem,
So when asked how I feel, I can clearly show ‘em.
To eat you right now is one of my greatest wishes,
Because, old friend, you are spectacularly delicious.