The perfect cut,
A napkin to keep clean,
Your eyes are shut,
Your upper body, towards the table, you lean.
However you make it,
It is perfect for you,
Your empty stomach it will hit,
And your hunger will be stricken too.
A white, clean plate,
Some cheese out the side,
This perfection is going to meet its fate,
The taste will lift your pride.
The one sad thing about your creation,
The crumbs on your shirt the clues of your crime,
All of your imagination,
Goes into a sandwich with an expiry time.
Yes, the sadness does come slowly,
And your hands are now empty with nothing,
But your stomach is no longer lonely,
And you're mouth is no longer tempting
For a sandwich that you were once craving.