Ain’t no sensation like a delicate ass in.
Pudgy, frightened, squeeze intended, but will settle for a wedgie.
Cured, pork, meat off the bone ready for the fork.

Unfounded, dependent, curious, alive, the butcher shears the meat.
The fat that flows, bottled, lubricant for whores.
Salt, the miracle worker, Pips squeeze the reverse osmosis.
Intended, rather extended the carcass lies on my roof to cure

Delirious, true sensation, the angel fucks up.
Winged, cursed are the stranded.

The olive branch, the oily branch,

The pig that once was, straggler on his meadow, partaking of the farmers land.

Now marbled, like marble, rotting, the diseased waste
Packed, repacked, stamped for the world to taste.

Rosemary, the flavor mother intended, to place by the cross.
Gently folded between the pink crevasses, unearthed, when the tongue navigates it tresses.

The pork belly, the pectin jelly that now lines my belly!

The cross section examined that harbors the cross meant for the savior, not you, the savior but the savior the savior!

Son, the earth pretends but gluttony is bad behavior!