Apt Apple

Apples, cinnamon and honey

Flour, soda, salt and eggs.

All these things sound innocent

Thinking of them I’m quite content

Yet on my body they wreak havoc

How can such innocuous things

Be so nasty, dammit?

Mixed em up and put in the oven

Decided then it was like a bad omen.

They go out the door to the neighbors dear

Just do not want them here.

Sprinkled apple slices with cinnamon.

And I have my apple taste that

Will not sit in rolls on my waist.

I’m thinking of what to eat

Just need to move my feet

And clean the house and organize

Then the thought of food will be behind

And not in front of my eyes.

Days off are the hardest, true,

But with industriousness I’ll get through.

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