Nestled inside a craggy crust
The forbidden fruit beckons me
Forbidden, for it is of impure blood
Of a single brood of poultry eves
The adam in me is persistent but
Spices and onions act as its accompaniment
Small-arms fire in a merriment
It is now not a question of morals
Otherwise, L J Iyengar would be very vocal
Every day is a good day
The government says
Happy to report
That I too can contribute
Perfect recipe for a quick catch up
Especially when drenched with ketchup
Is it an addiction? I sometimes wonder
Looking at the four pieces split asunder
Never has an act of consumption
Been so much about consummation