A bag of cuties, upon the kitchen table,
Beckoned to me, with easy peeling,
Sweet juices and no seeds to gag on -
Each one more decadent than the last,
As my little addiction monster kicked in...
Looking at the plate now,
I see just the skins, the remains of ten.
...plus a pineapple container,
And two plastic shells that
Held cheese, nuts, and wrinkled raisins...
Is it me, or could this poem be,
In a pornographic way, taken?
None the less, I feel a bit more healthy,
From an orgasmic frenzy of vitamin C.
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