Revised sonnet #1415
A female making massive fuss of food
Its evil gluten shell just never eat
I hold essentially its harvest wheat
And shes emphatic portions overchewed
Off any plate a scoop or slice is hewed
The fork tines teeter over vege meat
The calories are counted latent heat
The favoured flavour isnt gourmand skewed
I wonder whether shes the sort to purge
Theres no enamel cracks of which youd speak
Im lonely less in company of freak
Ill manage meantime certain sensual urge
I guess the size of dress as six to eight
I guess its wiggle room Id fete as fate
Chorus eight acht oito