I saunter naked from the birthplace of my impulse,
to the cupboard, to the fridge, and my hands dance of mixology.
This is revelry in my frivolty.
The height of my indulgence in quantity, obviously.
Moments roll off the tip of my silent tongue,
and land in my greedy greasy mitts.
I entice a pizza to the oven like a seduction at a young muffin (or strumpet if you like)
then I remember the drawers dedication to cheese.
I smile as provolone is thrown, and old friends odes come to mind.
Two many beers, food near, and 1080p of mind stroke
This is no joke.
Destiny is a friend to me.
I bow my head and smile.
CHUTCH!