Shall I compare thee to a cone of fries?
Thou art less salty and less full of grease.
Partake of them, however, and your thighs—
as well our love—will gradually increase.
Sometimes too hot we're given them to hold;
we chew with open mouths and tilt our head
and beg for water—beg for water cold
but wouldn't dream to spit them out instead.
But thy eternal hotness doth not cool,
though fries may come and go with passing years,
and though they thrill me'nough to make me drool
their succor is but brief: it disappears.
You're better than all taters I have known.
Just kidding. Get your own damn paper cone.
