By Shawn
I spy thee in a march funereal—
Why tiptoe thou, why are thy feet so cold?
I proffer thee a plan venereal
Involving cake that is exceeding bold.
I know a beach where we might eat with ease,
A place that I have ne’er brought kin nor kith.
Pass not thy time beside a masterpiece—
‘Tis I that thou shouldst fain be rollin’ with.
I watch thee plunge thine arms in frosting deep,
And crave a lick of thine enfrosted hand.
Aquatic sex confection’s what I seek—
I tire of all the candy on dry land.
O let us act as madly as we dare,
Cake-eating by Poseidon’s wat’ry lair.
Into the Friar 