
I can do okay unless the scent
Of my favorite which is sent
To me or see it on someoneâs plate
My stomach begs, ready to sate
My desire of the forbidden food
And swiping it off someoneâs plate is rude.
Oh well, I turn away and sigh
No need to add to my thighs
I look at my own plate, greens upon ya,
Which I love but theyâre no lasagna!
***
Poetic license?đ
W3 Prompt #118: Weaâve Written Weekly









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