Whipped Topping Grin

The opposition calls like intuition, from down the halls to the master's kitchen. Her knees are rocking cheddar cheese blocks, and when she walks you hear Pop Rocks. Her eyes are made of ribeye steaks. Her lips are whipped cream topped chocolate cakes. Her cheeks are stuffing with a gravy blush. Her neck is a lamb chop, long and lush. Her chest is dressed with fried chicken strips. Her hips swivel with potato chips. Her legs, saturated in maple bacon. Her stomach, a malt drink, freshly shaken. Her arms are sausage kabobs, super-sized. Her ears are cream cookies, finely disguised. Her hair boasts alfredo soaked spaghetti strands. She holds a loaded potato with open hands. She knows your struggles and echoes your taste, never minding the size of your waist. You want to break free and finally be thin, but she follows you sweetly with that whipped topping grin.