No. 4 combo, not toasted, please

Herein I detail the nature of my immediate dismay.


Since 2:00 p.m. on this previous Sunday, (when I enjoyed a juicy medium-rare burger topped with smoked gouda, sharp cheddar, bacon, and a chipotle sauce) I have consumed the following items:

• 4 rough handfuls of honey wheat braided pretzel sticks
• Six (6) microwaveable pancakes topped with a pint of vanilla ice cream and artificial syrup
• A sausage, egg & cheese sandwich on a croissant from a foods chain that shall remain unnamed for legal reasons
• Beer.

As of writing, it has been 52 hours since I have eaten like a human. The below is the heinous result.

"Untitled"

Formidable the rumblings are
When pantry's bare as December
And in the cave of bubbling tar
Where sundries are remembered
Fondly, as though rude dreams
That bear no public repetition
Sequestered by some lewd means
(On account of this sick condition)
Above, in dearness and vividity,
Those fustyle night's encounters
Of heaving nude sin-riddentry.
For what fullness did they amount to?
Oh, trade, I would, Sunday's revelry
And Saturday's, and nights before
For a twenty-dollar note or three
For to take to the grocery store.
I've come to realize, sad to say
There's much I'm likely not above;
I thusly theorize—if for to pay
For food, I'd nightly sell my love.
If anything, I know cursedly how Sturm und Drang's inspired.
For any worthy verse to be, a hunger pang's required.