You’re not like all those other tools,
fond only of their wieners.
Yet even as your fire cools,
I see a snag between us.

Why won’t you be my Montague?
I’d be your Juliet.
I see you at the barbecue
embracing Andouillette.

That pig, I’d like to pierce her through,
and feed her to the cat.
She’s full of tripe, she smells of poo,
The wurst, a spoiled brat.

She sizzles near your tenderloins,
that visc’ral vivisection.
My tines vibrate as she purloins
the flames of your affection.

I come in closer, she’s dead meat.
I touch you with a tine.
You see my points, I feel your heat,
and briefly, we entwine.

And then I see the sausage roll
to ashes in disgrace.
It’s my turn now, I’ll take control,
I vow, I’ll take back space.

We’re stronger than the sausage link,
I’ve seen our stars align.
And later in the kitchen sink,
I know that you’ll be mine.

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