An Ode to Pizza

You're round,
cost a pound,
can be found,
in the ground.

You're growing roots,
sprouting shoots,
are in cahoots
with a pair of boots.

The boots fit.
You're so close-knit.
But you've got to admit
you don't speak Sanskrit.

In the name of Allah,
why do you taste like balsa?
Is it bad Karma,
or were you made by Brahma?

You were meant to be eaten
but your base looks wheaten.
Your toppings look beaten.
Maybe I should sweeten.

Your smelliest topping
smells like a dropping.
I suggest you go shopping
and go teeny bopping.

( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 13:34, 2 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

:)
Oh Spakkaman, you fool
Your poem's really cool
*so clendrix leaves, and heats a
pepperoni pizza*
( thealternativefact, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 16:00, Reply)

Oh spakkaman
you had me giggling like a little girl,
and then I realised that nothing ryhmes with girl so I can't turn this into a poem.


Oh, wait curl! Unfurl,er... ....churl?
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 9:03, Reply)