Parody of a sonnet

 The clock strikes twelve,my hunger abounds,

The kitchen groans with too much food inside,

The food sits heaped upon the shelf in mounds,

My mother scolds me and by law abides,

Forbids me touch the smallest crumb in sight,

My stomach drops below my tippy-toes,

And fills the empty space between my bite,

She locks the door with a small garden hose

And I despaire of ever eating again!

The kitchen taunts with every groaning smell,

In agony I wait for dinner to begin,

No longer can I stand the tort'ring smells

                            But sitting next to me is a skittle,

                           I'll eat this now and be satisfied a little.









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