Red lips, the perfect simmer in her hips,
A pot of desire seasoned just right,
the malt vinegar to my fish and chips.
I had Coke at home, I wanted a Sprite.
I lifted the lid, stuck one finger in
the sizzling gooey layers steaming
with sticky sin, but what to my chagrin,
The absent aftertaste had no meaning.
I searched for fullness, but not satisfied
and still feel a rumble deep down below,
I need to eat with my heart—not my eyes,
but temptation’s a sly cook, apropos.
His recipe for lust grew from the root;
you know, it’s in our blood to eat the fruit