“Chewy,” thinks me, fork in hand,
Commenting on her taste.
Throughout pubescence had I been
Taught etiquette and not to waste.

She tasted not like chicken but
Of sumptuous carnal pleasure.
Sat I picking at fickle fillet;
I had deboned her at leisure.

All of the girls who’ve died for me
Have touched me in endless ways.
In love, I trust all’ve had the misfortune,
I know of one crime that deliciously pays.